


Brilliancy

by LadyNorbert



Series: Elemental Chess [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Family, Gen, Kidnapping, Multi, Other, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Present Tense, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 37,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNorbert/pseuds/LadyNorbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amestris's chessmaster will need the support of all his closest pieces when he's challenged by an unseen opponent. But even if he wins, he still might lose... Post manga/Brotherhood, spoilers. RoyAi. Volume 2 of the "Elemental Chess" series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Irregular Opening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a direct sequel to my previous FMA story, Flowers of Antimony. It's a good idea to read that before you read this, if you haven't already, so that you understand any references I make back to that plot. Those of you who have read FoA will remember that it was a very slowly-developing story, so if this chapter seems to be lacking in action, you understand why. I guess I just love to tease you all. ;)
> 
> Those of you who have read FoA will also remember that the story and all chapters were titled with actual alchemical terms. This one is all chess terms, and as with that one, I will be providing the definitions. The terms won't always relate to the plot of the chapter where they're being used, but sometimes they will.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply; Arakawa owns all and I'm just playing in her toybox. Enjoy, and remember, reviews are love!

_**Brilliancy:** A spectacular and beautiful game of chess, generally featuring sacrificial attacks and unexpected moves._

 

 

**Irregular Opening**

_Chess openings with an unusual first move from White._

* * *

Winter potatoes have never been one of Roy Mustang's favorite foods. They aren't necessarily bad; it's just that he's eaten what he sees as more than his fair share over the years.

In Ishval, however, the winters are no less bitter than the summers are scorching. It doesn't snow, but the temperatures - in some areas particularly, and most especially at night - dip to extremes that make him long for the heated apartment he left in Central, or even for the drab semi-comfort of East City. Apart from whatever foods can be imported from the rest of Amestris, and whatever surplus has been avariciously stashed away in warmer months, the only rations to be had are the damned winter potatoes.

To her credit, Roy's wife is a resourceful chef, a trait she's retained from her younger days of caring for her heavily distracted father and his schoolboy apprentice. Sometimes, when the master would get too involved with his researches, it would be up to her to reuse leftovers for days until he remembered the need to buy groceries, and she developed a talent for turning the same foods into different dishes. Now in adulthood, Riza has worked out at least six ways to cook the potatoes that make them decently palatable for Roy, and meals at home are perfectly acceptable. (More than acceptable, really, when one factors in just how long they'd had to wait to have a home  _together_ , neither separated by the abominable anti-fraternization laws nor forced to share a cramped room in the barracks. When those details get taken into consideration, Riza's dinners seem downright magical.)

The house they call theirs in Ishval is small. This is deliberate; they agreed that it wouldn't really go very far toward getting the Ishvalans to trust them if they lived in better quarters than the natives. So their house is simple, and modestly furnished; at least the revitalization of the region has included electricity and running water, meaning the house has both. It's big enough for a pair of atoners and their dog. Most of their belongings remain in Central City, either in storage or at the Fuhrer's mansion with Riza's grandfather, because there's absolutely no place to keep them in the little domicile; they've pretty much limited themselves to the essentials and a few small comforts. But despite his reputation as a man who enjoys the finer things in life, Roy honestly doesn't mind how plain the house is.

Riza's there, which means that it's home.

They have a vegetable garden out back, like most of their neighbors, and he's been working there for the last hour to collect more of the unfortunate tubers. He brings in the basket, Black Hayate at his heels, and puts them in the kitchen. His wife ( _his_  wife,  _his_ , he's never going to get tired of being able to say that) is at the stove, making dinner. They've already put in a long day of work - there are no days off, it sometimes seems - but she hates to garden and he hates to cook, so the division of labor at home is no difficult arrangement.

"Dare I guess what we're having?"

"Potato soup."

"Hm." It's a decent compromise. He has always loved her soup, and loved to watch her make it, ever since he was a teenaged boy with a crush on his teacher's pretty daughter. Some things don't change no matter how old you get. He moves behind her to fold his arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder. "It's going to be another frigid night in Ishval."

"Sir, consider the time of year," she says, absently slipping back into subordinate mode for a moment. " _Every_  Ishvalan night is frigid right now." As if he doesn't know.

"Uh-huh." He knows; he just doesn't care very much. The spot just behind Riza's left ear fascinates him, no matter how often he investigates it, and he's busy warming his nose on her skin. She chuckles and reaches up to run her fingers through his hair, brief and soft.

* * *

This is their third winter in Ishval since the reconstruction began, though only the first since their marriage. It's been a rough road. The people still don't entirely trust them; their reputations from the war are too severe. It's gotten better since they started, and there's no denying that the presence of Scar and Major Miles - being natives of Ishval - has helped greatly. The sincerity of the rebuild has been fairly well established. Still, it's a slow progress, or at least it seems that way to Roy. He's a patient man, but there's something about the desert air that wants to suck the patience right out of his soul. Between the harsh conditions and the loathing of the people and the sheer staggering amount of work to be done, he's privately rather convinced that if he had not had Riza with him all along, he would never have lasted even the first year of the initiative. But then again, Fuhrer Grumman has never been a fool, and he promised Roy from the beginning that he would have what he needed to achieve the rebuild.

Interestingly, there seems to have been an improvement in the Ishvalans' acceptance of the Mustangs since the wedding, although Roy is at something of a loss to explain that. Maybe it's because they're now living in the same kind of house as the people, instead of the allegedly more comfortable barracks; or maybe it's because they've proven that commitment isn't a problem for them. (Really, it never was. They've been committed to each other for years. It's just that now they can let other people see that fact.) He doesn't get it, but he's grateful for anything that makes this process easier.

"Could you feed Hayate, Roy? This is just about ready."

He kisses her neck - a gesture which is part suggestion, part affection - and goes to get the dog food from the cabinet. "C'mere, boy. Sit...shake...good boy." He doesn't feel like going through the whole routine of tricks that Riza devised for training when the dog was a puppy; both of her men are hungry. Roy watches Hayate for a minute, half-smiling, and rubs the little guy's ears before joining Riza at the table.

"The soup smells good," he offers, pulling her chair out for her.

Her smile is fond, if slightly wry. She knows his feelings about the winter potatoes, just as she knows his feelings about everything else. "Thank you. I put in some extra pepper this time, since you liked it better that way."

They have a rule that they do not discuss work over meals. They sleep and breathe their projects every other moment of the day; Riza argues that they do not need to eat them too. So instead, she picks up her spoon and says, "We received a letter from the Elrics today."

"Resembool is still in one piece?"

"It seems to be. Winry sent a new picture of the baby."

Roy gives a bark of laughter. "Fullmetal's going to wear out his camera before the kid's out of diapers."

"Probably. And we're supposed to expect an invitation in the near future."

"To what?" He eyes her warily.

"Al and May finally announced their formal betrothal. They're going to have two ceremonies - the royal wedding in Xing and a second one in Resembool. We'll be invited to that one."

"That's good. I think they'll be happy together." He doesn't feel the need to elaborate on his opinion of either the alchemist or the princess. He defied both Lust and a direct order to flee, while she drew a transmutation circle in blood. Because of their actions on two very different days, Riza's still breathing and for that, Alphonse Elric and May Chang will always be two of Roy's favorite people. "We're not going to have to set up another month of guard duty or anything, will we?"

"I don't think so. The Emperor won't be coming for the Resembool party, so they're going to travel in a much smaller caravan. And they're not going to come until the railroad across the desert is finished, which will make things easier too."

"Ling's not coming? Why not?"

Her eyes mock him, lovingly. "I imagine it has something to do with the Empress's pregnancy, General."

"Oh, right." Sheesh. Babies everywhere these days. Falman's second kid was born in the fall and Ling's having one and Ed's probably trying to start a second one, which is a mental picture Roy does not need while he's eating. (Or conscious. Or breathing.) Not that he himself minds babies, and he'd like one or two of his own in time, if they should be so lucky. It just seems like there are an awful lot of them in his personal acquaintance of late.

* * *

He showers later, and Riza is already asleep by the time he joins her in bed.

She always looks tiny to him, somehow, when she sleeps. When they're awake she's just the right size; she's healthy, and strong, and he takes some kind of sappy delight in the way she fits perfectly under his chin. Burrowed into the quilts, however, she seems almost doll-like. Fragile.

_Your precious woman is dying, Mustang._

He gives himself a violent shake, trying to forget that voice. She's not dying, she's not, she's right there and she's whole and safe and there's no blood. A fading scar, yes, but no blood. He gets under the covers and pulls her close, proving to the shadows how solid she is, trying to shut out the memory of a dirt floor with a red stain growing ever larger.

"Roy?" The word is mumbled, and she blinks at him in the desert darkness; he sees just a hint of light reflected in her eyes. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. Go back to sleep...I'm sorry I woke you."

She's too disoriented to be very concerned, which slightly amuses him because it's so unusual for her not to worry. Instead, she kisses him briefly and huddles into the hollow of his chest, and in less than a minute she's out cold again. He holds her, breathing the scent of her hair until it chases away the specter of the gold-toothed doctor, and when he does sleep, there are no nightmares.

Small favors.


	2. Romantic Chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is going to be containing some flashbacks - certain events later are going to make certain characters, particularly Roy, look back at some things that happened in the past. Most of those will actually be missing scenes from the manga, because I love showing everyone my headcanon.

**Romantic Chess**

_A style of play characterized by bold attacks and sacrifices._

* * *

"General Mustang?"

"Yes, Colonel Mustang?"

It is as close to a running joke as they tend to get in their Ishvalan office. Their staff is competent, polite, and dedicated, but not much for kidding each other. While Riza tends to appreciate this for the most part, she misses her four (moderately disciplined) goofballs. Back in Central, that exchange of titles would have been followed by a guffaw or a snort, the offering of a treat to Black Hayate, the suggestion of a ridiculous plot to put off work as long as possible, or the stakes of the latest betting pool. It's funny, really; she always knew she'd miss Fuery, Falman, Havoc and Breda themselves, but she never thought she would miss the slacking.

"I have your schedule for the day, sir."

"Let's hear it."

There's nothing too out of the ordinary on the agenda. They are slated to attend a meeting with some of the higher-ranking Ishvalan officials and religious leaders regarding the current projects. This will occupy most of the morning and be followed by lunch with Major Miles, after which he will join them for a tour of the proposed site for the new manufacturing plant. A few of the Ishvalans are still slightly hesitant about this planned venture, but Major Miles is enthusiastic and this helps with most anything. Once the building is complete, expert glassmakers will be brought from Central to teach the natives how to turn the desert sand into fine glass for windows, mirrors, and the like, which will open up new opportunities for trade. The whole idea germinated from one of Roy's late-night brilliant flashes, actually, and he's been following through on it very intently, working with the engineers and calling in a few long-standing favors when necessary to get the ball rolling. Riza is proud of him.

"Hm. I think I'm tired already," he says now.

"After the tour there's just some paperwork."

"And we both know how much I love paperwork, Colonel."

"Would you rather do it now, sir?" she inquires sweetly.

"No, I suppose not." He rubs the spot between his eyes and gives her a slightly bleary smile. "Is there more coffee?"

"Of course." She refills his mug, watching him uneasily. "Didn't you sleep well?" Ever since that fever which delayed their wedding by several weeks, she's tried to keep his workload from burying him and to make sure that he gets enough rest. She understands why he pushes himself so hard, but she worries about him becoming that sick again, so she's constantly on the alert for signs of overtaxation or ill-feeling. It's nothing new, really, she's not watching him any more than she ever did - she's just gotten sharper about identifying signals.

"Once I fell asleep it was fine," he assures her, accepting the fresh brew with a grateful wink. "Just took me a little while to doze off, that's all. Don't worry."

* * *

Major Miles is pleasant as always, though still mostly formal. Scar, who accompanies him to the lunch meeting, is largely silent. Riza never knows what to make of him; it's strange enough to have known him as an ally in battle, but stranger still to have him now as an ally in peace. He does not altogether trust either her or Roy, though he trusts them more than he once did and she's willing to accept that. The only Amestrian he seems to completely trust is General Armstrong, for reasons that are his own.

"The Ishvalan representatives are extremely pleased with the plans for the glass factory," Miles informs them. "This is going to provide a host of new employment opportunities as well as trade. You've done well, General."

Roy demurs. "I just had the idea. I don't know the first thing about making glass except that you need sand to do it; my contacts in Central are really the ones who deserve the credit."

"You've grown modest," Miles says good-naturedly. He's not normally one for teasing.

"Me? Never. Just honest."

Miles doesn't press it, but his smile is still there. "How is Fuhrer Grumman?" he asks, turning to Riza.

"Very well, thank you. I spoke with him yesterday."

"Is he still planning to attend the opening of the completed factory? The people are, I think, interested to see him - he has been generous with us since his rise to power."

"As far as I'm given to understand, he's looking forward to it. He's never been to Ishval." This is true. Grumman had nothing to do with the conflict of some years ago, having been already stuck in Eastern Command. Yes, Ishval is in East Amestris, but Fuhrer King Bradley only wanted his own loyal generals involved with the war, not a gentler soul like Grumman who would have tried to stop the bloodshed. This has turned out to be helpful in the long run, since Grumman's name isn't cursed in Ishval the way Bradley's always will be.

"He'll be welcomed." Riza honors Miles for the sincerity of that remark.

"How is General Armstrong?" she inquires, taking a turn at conversation. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Roy's lips twitch, fighting a smile. He and the blonde General are as fond of each other as they have ever been.

"Doing well. I had a message from her recently. The peace talks with Drachma are progressing to her satisfaction."

"I'm glad to hear it. Oh, Scar..." It occurs to her that he might not have heard. He raises his eyebrows, wary at being addressed. "We had a letter from Edward Elric yesterday. His brother Alphonse is engaged to May Chang."

There is a pause. "Really?"

"They'll be coming to Amestris sometime in the next few months. I'm sure she'd like to see you."

The mention of his little friend has a salutary effect on Scar's generally stoic demeanor. "It would be nice to see her as well," he acknowledges with one of his small, rare smiles.

"I'll find out when they're expected to come here. I don't see why they couldn't visit Ishval on their way to the Elric home in Resembool, especially since we're on a more direct railway line now."

He nods. "Thank you." Words of gratitude always sound a little strange coming out of Scar's mouth, perhaps because he has occasion to say them even more rarely than he has occasion to smile. The fact that she was able to elicit both responses from him in the space of one meal is oddly satisfying to Riza.

* * *

The tour is short, not least because of the bitter winds. There's only so much to be seen, anyway; the rubble which occupied the spot has been cleared away, and construction on the glass factory is slated to begin in the next two weeks. There had been some brief -  _very_  brief - contemplation about possibly letting alchemists erect the building, which would certainly go much faster, but this was roundly vetoed. Instead, it's been decided that the majority of the construction workers will be Ishvalans, with the aid of a few engineers from Central. Miles will be the military's liaison on the project, of course.

"If all goes according to plan," Miles says as they drive back to headquarters, "everything should be finished by early summer. Once we have a better idea of when completion will be, we can more accurately schedule His Excellency's visit."

"Very good." Roy seems tired, to Riza's trained eyes, though to anyone else it's less visible. "Keep me informed, gentlemen, and thank you for all your hard work." (He's always careful not to thank them for their  _help_ , because he says that makes it sound like they're doing him a favor and he knows they're not doing anything for his sake.)

* * *

Leaving Miles and Scar, they return to Roy's office, where he more or less collapses into his chair and groans. "Can't we go home now?" he asks, giving her his best puppy dog face.

"Sorry, sir, but there's still the joy of paperwork to be done." The office is currently empty, which is the only reason he can get away with what he does next; he knows he can get away with it, and she knows that he knows it. Riza can read the intent in his eyes and folds her arms, fully prepared for what's coming.

"I love you," he says, his tone plaintive and wheedling.

"Yes, General, that's been fairly well established."

"You mean more to me than anything in the world."

"Where are you going with this?" She of course knows exactly where he's going with this.

"Do you think you could..."

She sighs. It's not as if she doesn't have work of her own to do. But he's showing some genuine strain, today, and that's sufficient reason to capitulate; besides, she's never been very good at telling him no in any case. So she takes half the stack of papers and transfers them to her own desk. "Best get started, sir."

"Right."

He picks up a pen, looking gloomy but resigned. Riza, watching him out of the corner of her eye, smiles to herself. "I love you too, sir."

He doesn't say anything, but his mood seems to improve.


	3. Artificial Castling

**Artificial Castling**

_A maneuver of several single moves by the king and a rook where they end up as if they had castled._

* * *

"I hate the train," Jean Havoc says matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

"I'm too tall. Can't stretch out properly in these seats."

He has a point, Heymans Breda has to admit. Havoc has always been the tallest member of Team Mustang, towering over even Falman and Mustang himself. It's not a problem that Breda himself has ever had anywhere, so his sympathies are mild at best, but he makes a commiserating sort of noise and shuffles the deck of cards.

"I still don't understand why we're going to Ishval," says Rebecca Catalina. The three of them, along with Kain Fuery, are sandwiched together in a small compartment on a train bound southeast.

"None of us do," says Breda. "It's a little strange, isn't it? The Chief summoning us out of nowhere?"

"And it sounded urgent," Havoc agrees. "Fuery, read it again."

The communications specialist pulls from his breast pocket the letter which arrived the previous afternoon, and reads the contents aloud. "The queen and I find ourselves in danger of checkmate. My rook, my knight, and my pawn are needed to cover the board. Bring the queen's side knight too. Hurry, please, the enemy is advancing."

"So how did I become the queen's side knight anyway?" asks Rebecca.

Breda points at Havoc. "He's the king's side knight. You're his girlfriend, and Hawk-er, the Colonel's best friend. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Mustang's an oddball."

"You don't know him well enough to understand," says Havoc. "Chess is his metaphor for life. Ever since he set up this unit, we've all been codenamed as pieces - Breda's the rook, Fuery's the pawn."

"And Riza's the queen," she says, nodding slowly. "Okay, I get that much."

"I wish you'd been able to get through to him when you called, Fuery," says Breda. "It'd be nice to have a better idea of what the heck we're getting ourselves into."

"Me too. But on the other hand, at least we get to see them!"

After a moment, Havoc cracks a smile. "Yeah. We do."

"We've got a ways to go, though, so who's in?" says Breda, preparing to deal.

"What are the stakes on this hand?"

"Lunch for a week when we get back."

For a time they're silent, other than obligatory card-related comments like "Hit me" or "I fold." Finally, though, Rebecca breaks in. "Are we  _sure_ that rushing down to Ishval in response to this letter is the best course of action? It seems a little..." She gestures vaguely, unable to find the word.

"Impulsive? Poorly planned? Reckless?"

"I think I was leaning more toward  _weird_ , but yeah."

"We've known Mustang for a long time," Havoc says with a shrug. "One thing you can say for him is that he doesn't exaggerate. If anything, he'd be more likely to downplay a situation so people don't worry. So if he's telling us that he needs our help, then he must  _really_  need our help."

"How serious is a checkmate?"

"You don't play chess?"

"I know the basics. I know that when you're checkmated, you lose the game."

"Technically speaking, checkmate means that the king is dead or, at least, dethroned." Breda's eyes darken. He and Falman had always taken it in turns to play chess with their former boss, and he has some idea of Mustang's playing style. The word  _checkmate_ is not one that he would throw at them lightly. "This might be political... maybe some of the Ishvalan higher-ups are giving him more grief than he expected."

"It might be personal," Fuery counters, looking worried. "You don't think anything could be wrong with him, do you? What if he's sick again?"

"Could be something wrong with Ladyhawk." Havoc's normally bright expression dims.

"Ladyhawk?" Rebecca repeats, looking at him.

"We don't call her Riza. We just don't," he explains. "But we can't call her Hawkeye anymore either - I mean, I guess we  _could_ , but it doesn't seem quite right. And we can't call her Mustang, because there's two of them."

"Yeah. So ever since they got married, we refer to her as Ladyhawk," Fuery adds. "It fits her."

"I don't think there's anything wrong with Riza. Wouldn't she have told me in her letters?" Rebecca protests.

"Maybe, maybe not. Depends on how serious it is and whether she'd want you to worry. Or if she was concerned about the letter being intercepted."

"Doesn't seem to have stopped Mustang from contacting you guys."

"He didn't use the regular post," Fuery reports. "A private courier brought the letter."

"That's even  _weirder_."

"All the same, I think I'm glad we're going," Havoc says firmly. "We can see for ourselves that they're all right."

They fall silent again for a spell. Breda glances at Havoc, whose fingers are clearly itching to light a cigarette - he can't smoke on the train, a fact which probably contributes to his dislike of the mode of transport. He's staring out the window, frowning, and Breda thinks he understands where his thoughts are headed.

The breaking up of the original Team Mustang did absolutely nothing to change the attachments existing between its members. In a way, it almost enhanced them. Mustang is their leader, and even when he's not physically present they all still consider him their leader, if unofficially. Their regard for him is a mix of admiration and respect and the affection one might hold for a brother or even a father, despite his not being the oldest member of the group. The possibility that something has once again befallen him is disquieting, to put it mildly.

"Ladyhawk," on the other hand, is, in many respects, the one who really always ruled the roost. There were times when they might have considered defying or denying Mustang, at least for a second or two; they would never dare such a thing with her. She is the queen - she is  _their_ queen - and they almost lost her once, to something from which even Mustang himself couldn't protect her. To Havoc in particular, the idea that they're rushing to Ishval because she's in trouble is mildly unbearable. They all love her, devotedly, but it was Havoc who gave her the new name and it is Havoc to whom she is arguably the closest. Maybe it's a sniper thing, or maybe it's got something to do with the Rebecca factor; Breda has never entirely gotten it, in truth.

In a way, the worst part of all is that the General and the Colonel are finally, truly, deservedly  _happy_. They at last have what everyone has always known they most needed in life - each other - and the messages they've been receiving from Ishval since the wedding have, up until now, reflected nothing so much as a pure contentment. Breda doesn't think they'd know how to survive without one another, and it's really been a comfort to all of them, however subconsciously, to think that they don't need to ever find out. But apparently, something has come along to disrupt their happiness.

It makes him kind of quietly angry, to be honest.

He's not letting his friends down. The rook is going into Ishval and, if need be, he'll castle in order to defend the king and queen.

* * *

"It's  _freezing_!" Rebecca exclaims, huddling into her coat. "I didn't know the desert got so cold!"

"They call it winter," her boyfriend says dryly.

"Still!"

Breda is looking around the station, suspicious. "Anybody else see what's wrong with this picture?"

"There's no one here to meet us," Fuery replies.

"Exactly." Seeing Rebecca's look of puzzlement, he clarifies. "We sent a message back by the same private courier who brought us Mustang's letter, telling him which train we were going to take. The guy waited around while we made the arrangements. So assuming that Mustang got our note, he would have sent an official escort to bring us to headquarters."

"Which means that maybe he never got the message," says Havoc, frowning. "This could all be worse than we think it is - what if the courier was intercepted?"

"Let's not panic," says Rebecca. "Maybe they just forgot the time we were due to arrive. Anyway, we're all uniformed, so there's nothing stopping us from going to headquarters ourselves, right?"

"Right...okay, let's go."

They make their way slowly through the rebuilding community, craning their necks in all directions to see what's been accomplished since their friends arrived. "It's really looking good," Havoc remarks. "I wasn't sure what to expect, but this is nice."

The Ishvalan military headquarters is considerably less impressive than Central Command, but it's nevertheless easily identified. They name themselves for the perplexed desk sergeant, who shuffles several papers nervously before saying that there's no indication that they should be there. "The General is currently in his office, to the best of my knowledge," he adds. "Let me just call and tell him you've arrived." He picks up a phone and dials a number.

"Oh, good afternoon, Colonel Mustang. I apologize for the disturbance, but there's a party here from Central Command who say that you and the General are expecting them." He squints at the names he has hastily scribbled on a tablet. "Fuery, Breda, Havoc, and Catalina...oh? Oh, I see. Yes, ma'am. Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am, they've only been here a few minutes. Right away, ma'am." He hangs up and points down the hall. "The Colonel says to come directly - go down that way and turn right, then make another left. It's at the end of that second hall, you can't miss it. Welcome to Ishval."

They march through the halls, two by two, their eyes darting over everything. The unknown enemy could be anywhere. Breda feels like he suspects everybody he passes, even a few of the paintings on the walls.

The door at the end of the second hall identifies its occupant as  _Brigadier General Roy Mustang, Central Command Representative_. Havoc grasps the doorknob and looks at his companions. They nod, slowly, and he pulls open the door.

There he is - the man himself sits at the desk at the far end, just as he did back in Central. His wife stands next to his chair, as alert and watchful as ever. They both... smile, which Breda thinks is strange considering the urgency of the summons.

"And it's not even my birthday," says Mustang. "What's the occasion?"

* * *

Twenty or so  _very_  confused minutes later, he's examining the letter which has prompted their arrival. "I don't understand..."

"You're telling us that you didn't send this letter?" Havoc is obviously desperate for a cigarette by now. "We came down here on a wild goose chase?"

"Looks that way. The better question is, why would someone want to lure you to Ishval?"

"Was it that they lured us  _to_ Ishval, or  _away_ from Central?" Breda points out.

"That's also something to consider."

"So you're really okay?" Rebecca says to the Colonel. "I mean, I figured you were, but these guys were  _worried_  about you."

"We're fine. Honestly, everything's fine." A rare, warm, really quite lovely smile is the reward they get for all their concerns, though as remuneration goes Breda has to admit that it's pretty good. "And it's so nice to see all of you! I was just thinking a few days ago how much we miss working with you boys."

"These guys worked?" Mustang asks with a smirk.

"More often than you ever did,  _sir_." Fuery, who is playing with Black Hayate, uses the dog to hide his grin at the reprimand; Havoc doesn't bother trying to be stealthy about his.

"Well, under the circumstances," Mustang continues, ignoring his better half, "I think it's best that you stay here until we find out what's going on. We don't have much room at the house, though, it's only a two-bedroom."

"Dibs on the guest bed," says Rebecca quickly. Havoc makes a face at her.

"We'll manage," Breda puts in before they can start quibbling at each other. "Something about the whole situation smells funny to me, Chief. I think it's a good idea for us to have your back for a few days."

"I agree. I couldn't ask for better backup." Mustang smiles, and it's a real smile this time, no smirking.

"You do realize what this means, General?" his wife interjects.

"What?"

"Extra mouths to feed means you'll have to dig up some more potatoes when we get home."


	4. Fool's Mate

**Fool's Mate**

_The shortest possible chess game ending in mate. It consists of just five moves._

* * *

There are more bodies in the little house than it should rightfully hold, but nobody seems to mind very much.

Havoc doesn't understand why the Chief dislikes the potatoes. He thinks they're great; their unexpectedly domestic hostess bakes them with some kind of oil and herbs, and they're moist and flavorful. On the other hand, he supposes that if he had to eat them every day, or nearly, he'd get sick of them too. Mustang eats plenty of them, though, and they all share a bottle of wine that came in Grumman's latest care package.

After dinner they sit around the tiny living room; Mustang builds a fire for them. Seats are at a premium, so Becky takes half of Havoc's and Ladyhawk, to his amusement, sits on Mustang's lap. Her fingers toy idly, almost as if she doesn't notice it herself, with the longer hairs at the back of his neck, and his arms encircle her waist as naturally as if that's exactly what they were designed to do. They are so free and easy, now, after years of restraint and denial.

For a while, they ignore the elephant in the room which is the mysterious fake summons. They talk of unimportant things - the latest gossip in Central Command, the litter of puppies Hayate sired with another officer's dog earlier in the year ("cute as hell," Mustang admits), the many ways Riza has learned to cook potatoes. The potatoes seem to be a running gag in this household, although their full significance eludes the guests. They talk of matters that are more significant - the new glass factory, Grumman's health, Falman's kids.

Havoc studies the walls of the room, and realizes that the Mustangs have done very little in the way of decorating. To be fair, they've only been living here a few months, and those months have been busy. But it's hard not to notice that the only adornments on the walls are all framed photographs. Their wedding picture hangs over the fireplace, a crowded montage of the small army that joined them on the day they were themselves joined. The photo of Team Mustang that sat on the Chief's desk for so many years, and the one of Mustang and Hughes at their academy graduation. Ed and Winry with their little boy. Grumman and his granddaughter. An older one of Hughes, Gracia and Elysia, next to a newer one of just Elysia. There must be some two dozen photographs, all told; some are in frames by themselves, while others are clustered together in larger frames, separated from one another by cardboard borders. The walls of the room read like a map of their lives.

"I still don't know why we were brought here," Havoc says finally, breaking the silence on the subject. "But I'm not going to lie - I'm glad we came."

"It's a mystery. But yes...we're glad you did too," Ladyhawk replies. Mustang nods, his cheek rubbing the fabric of her shirt as he does.

"I just wish this made a little more sense," says Breda. "There's only so many of us who know about your chess code. So if you didn't send that letter, then who did?"

Fuery, who sits on the floor rubbing Hayate's tummy, seems to be trying to piece it together in his mind. "Could it have been the Fuhrer?"

"It  _could_ , I suppose," says Mustang. "But this seems a little...out of character. Besides, if he wanted you to come here, why wouldn't he have just ordered you himself? Why impersonate me?"

"What about Falman? His idea of a prank?" Havoc suggests.

"Havoc, when have you  _ever_  known Falman to play a prank? Participate in betting pools, yes - play pranks, no. Besides, he's a little busy with fatherhood these days."

"Well, if it wasn't them, and it wasn't any of us, then who does that leave?" asks Breda. "Who else knows the code?"

Mustang looks thoughtful. "Fullmetal does," he admits. "I explained it to him when he and Riza and I were on our way to Central during the Xingese situation. He thought it was stupid, so I wouldn't have expected him to remember it, but maybe he's behind this."

"I doubt that," says his wife. "Edward's foolish and headstrong, but he's never been much of a prankster. And then too, this letter was on military stationery - where would he get that?"

"He could easily have swiped a few sheets last time he was at Central Command."

"I really don't think it was Edward, sir."

"You call him  _sir_  at home?" asks Becky, derailing the topic for a moment.

"Old habits die hard."

"Kinky." Havoc grins, until Becky elbows him in the stomach. Fuery is blushing purple, and Breda clears his throat loudly.

"To come back to the point of discussion," he says, "is there anyone else it could be? Have you used the code anywhere that it might have been overheard?"

"Well...at the office, occasionally." Mustang frowns. "But I make a point of only doing it when we're alone."

"It's a starting place. What if the office is bugged or something?"

"That's the only reason I even  _bother_  with the code - in case of something like that. Otherwise there wouldn't be much need for me to make encrypted remarks to my own wife, would there?"

"We'll give the office a thorough examination tomorrow," says Fuery. "You'd be amazed how many places there are to hide a listening device in a military office."

"And how do you know that, exactly?" Mustang's eyes narrow.

"Wow, would you look at the time! Boy, am I tired!" Havoc interrupts, trying to save the kid from his fate (and prevent him from revealing anything incriminating). "Let's all turn in, huh?"

* * *

While the women go upstairs to get Becky situated in the guest room, Mustang pulls out an assortment of spare blankets and pillows, and banks up the fire. "I think you'll be warm enough," he says. "Just try not to fight over the shower in the morning, all right? We don't ration water anymore since the plumbing was installed, but all the same. I expect everyone ready to go by 0700, is that clear?"

"Aye, sir!"

"At ease." He chuckles. "Good night, men."

Black Hayate, enjoying the proximity of Fuery, elects to remain downstairs rather than follow his second master up to bed. Havoc observes this for a moment, then looks at Breda. "Okay, explain something to me."

"What?"

"You are  _terrified_  of dogs."

"Yeah."

"Hayate has been within fifteen feet of you since we arrived."

"Yeah?"

"You're not freaking out. Why?"

"Because it's Hayate."

"I don't follow."

"I guess I've developed a tolerance. That doesn't mean I wanna hold him," he adds, glancing warily at the dog, "but I can be in the same room with him. He's the only one I can be this close to without shaking, though."

"Well, considering how often the former Lieutenant used to bring him to work, and how useful he's been to us on so many missions," says Fuery thoughtfully, "it makes sense that you don't fear him. There's almost always an exception that proves a rule, you know?"

"Yeah. Also, he still outranks  _you_." Breda laughs. Mustang had dubbed the dog an unofficial Second Lieutenant out of gratitude for his ability to sense the Homunculi.

Fuery flushes. "Not for much longer! I hope."

"You'll make it, kid," Havoc says easily. "I don't know why you weren't promoted long since."

"Me neither," Breda assures him. "Besides, I hear Mustang has some influence with the Fuhrer, he'll put in a good word for you."

"Or  _she_  will."

"Actually, I thought you'd get promoted after the Xingese incident. You were pretty valuable to us, and the Fuhrer knows it. Maybe he's just been distracted."

"By what, do you think?"

"From what I know of the guy? He's busy waiting to be told he'll be a great-grandfather."

"That's a visual I don't need, thanks."

As if on cue, there's a creak overhead, and they all slowly raise their eyes to the ceiling. They hold their breaths, but no further noises are heard, and they look at each other and laugh.

"I feel like we're camping," says Fuery. He smiles, lying on his stomach and pulling Black Hayate under his chin, and with his glasses off he somehow manages to look even younger than usual.

"Don't say that, you make me want to roast marshmallows."

Havoc yawns. "Who wants the first watch?" The others look at him quizzically, and he shrugs. "Hey, we still don't know what game we're playing, here. Somebody's gotta keep their eyes open at all times, right?"

"You're right, but we don't even know what we're watching  _for_ ," says Breda.

"I know, but we have to try. Get some sleep, men, I'll take first shift."

* * *

When Breda wakes him later, in the pre-dawn light, Havoc is amused to see Black Hayate curled up on Fuery's back.

Riza comes down, already dressed, and looks surprised to see them awake. "You were keeping watch, weren't you," she accuses them. The hawk's eyes are sharp as she looks from one to another.

"Well..."

"Kind of..."

She smiles, then, and they instinctively relax. "That's sweet. Come on, I'll start the coffee; everyone needs some breakfast."

And suddenly, Havoc grins, because for this single moment, it feels like old times. Barring the absence of Falman and the presence of his girlfriend, this is very much like one of the stakeouts they used to conduct back in Central, what with the taking turns at night watch and Fuery cuddling the dog and Riza mother-henning them in her own peculiar fashion. He would probably still answer to "Jacqueline" if she called him that, and he half-expects Mustang to come down and start flirting with "Elizabeth" the way he did in those days, back when that was the only way he could flirt with the woman he loved and not get court-martialed or, arguably worse, separated from the unit.

Maybe he's more nostalgic than the others, but it feels like home.


	5. Poisoned Pawn

**Poisoned Pawn**

_An unprotected pawn which, if captured, causes positional problems or material loss._

* * *

For three days, all is quiet.

Well, Fuery wouldn't really call it  _quiet_ , except in the whole  _absence of trouble_  sense. They get the grand tour - of Ishval Command, of the city in which it's situated, of all the different things that have happened to improve the area and win the trust of the surviving Ishvalan people. They scour General Mustang's office but turn up nothing in the way of listening devices, hidden cameras, or anything else that could possibly have provided someone outside of their trusted group with the code that has brought them here. They take a hard look at the staff who occupy the desks in the office that would once have been their own, and grudgingly acknowledge that they're acceptable.

But in between, there is hardly what could pass for silence. There is laughter, and chatter, and eating. There is chasing the dog and fighting over who's going to do the dishes and helping the General dig up more of the potatoes he claims to loathe. On the second night the General stays downstairs with them instead of sleeping in his own room, and there are late-night card games and good-natured teasing and the two women shake their heads over them in the morning, but neither has the heart to scold them properly.

It feels right. It feels good.

And it's over all too fast.

Because on the third day, things go horribly, horribly wrong - wronger than Fuery ever could have expected.

* * *

On the morning of the third day, Ladyhawk and Rebecca decide to take off until lunchtime and go shopping. The General finds this humorous - his wife is not usually much on shopping, but she wants to show Rebecca the marketplace, which is bustling and busy and packed with merchants from all of the neighboring countries. Both the ladies are armed and sufficiently dangerous if need be, so no harm is thought to be imminent.

In hindsight, Fuery thinks to himself, this is a foolish belief.

The time at which they're expected back comes and goes. And time marches on.

There is no sign of them.

The General paces the office floor, throws himself into his chair only to get up again almost immediately, stares out the window. He is agitated, like a cat in a cage. He does not know where his wife is, and for as long as he has known her, the times when Roy Mustang could not identify the whereabouts of Riza Hawkeye have been relatively few. He has never liked any of them. This fact manages to straddle the fine line between a well-kept secret and public knowledge, although at present it's not something he's attempting to hide.

They do not appear.

Havoc is on his fifth cigarette, and the window is open but the General does not tell him he can't smoke on government property. He should, Fuery knows, but under the circumstances he won't.

No sign.

Hayate is whimpering, distressed. He keeps sniffing at his beloved mistress's regular chair, as though trying to understand why she isn't occupying it as she should be. The General picks him up and holds him in his lap, ignoring the hair this rubs onto his uniform pants, trying to soothe both the dog and himself.

Almost four hours after their departure, Riza returns, and she looks upset which, for Ladyhawk, is strange enough.

"We got separated in the Cretan section," she says, as the General forces her to sit down and drink a glass of water. "Remember the rug merchant we looked at last week? I was showing her the carpet we were talking about sending Grandfather for his birthday, and everything was fine. And then we went to cross the square, and a truck came tearing through like the driver was drunk. I went one way, she went the other...and when the smoke had cleared, she was gone. I've been searching ever since and I just can't find her!"

"Drink, Riza," her husband says sternly. "You're dehydrated and exhausted." He's absolutely right, Fuery realizes; Ladyhawk is clearly rattled, and her lips are parched and her eyes are half-lidded with weary anxiety, too fearful to close but too weak to open all the way. She sips obediently at the water; if the situation were less worrisome, there would be a collective sense of amusement at their sudden role reversal, since normally she is the one to behave this way.

The General, meanwhile, starts reminding everyone of why they all admire him so much in the first place. He remains calm and collected, picking up the phone to direct people to comb the marketplace and issuing a general description of Rebecca. "We'll find her, Havoc," he says firmly. "Catalina's resourceful and smart. She'll be all right."

* * *

The report comes in almost two hours later; while Fuery is again testing the General's phone for wire-tapping (the results are still showing no signs of interference), they're interrupted by the arrival of Lieutenant Douglas. He's one of the men in Mustang's new unit, and he has struck Fuery as being rather quiet and unassuming. As he, Havoc and Breda watch from a distance, Douglas confers privately with the Mustangs and presents them with a written report before rushing out again.

"We've got a lead," the General says. "Let's go, men."

"Where is she?" Havoc is already pulling on his shoulder holsters; his expression is relatively calm, all things considered, but his eyes have betrayed his distress all day.

"A vehicle matching the description of the one that crashed the marketplace was spotted by passing travelers, abandoned in the outlying areas, not far from the desert border. They didn't think anything of it until they reached the capital and heard about the incident, so they didn't search it themselves." The General pulls several white cloaks out of a cabinet and tosses them to the men. He frowns at Riza when she helps herself to one as well. "You're not going."

"Oh, yes I am."

"I'm ordering you to stay here."

"And I am respectfully disobeying that order. Becky's out there because I lost sight of her. Besides, watching your back is still my job."

"We don't have time to argue." Fuery doesn't need his glasses to see who won this one. "Douglas interviewed the travelers himself; he's gone to arrange our transport."

"You think he's trustworthy?" asks Breda in a low voice.

"He's never given me reason to think otherwise. I'm not eager to start now. Let's get out there."

They file through the corridors one after another, the General leading the way. As they pass through the front doors of the headquarters building, however, a voice calls out to them. "Colonel! Colonel Mustang!"

The whole group halts and looks back as the desk sergeant - the one who had greeted Fuery and the others on their arrival - chases them outside, saluting and puffing. Ladyhawk looks bewildered. "Sergeant Sikorsky? What's the matter?"

"Beg pardon, ma'am, but you have an urgent phone call."

"It has to wait!"

"No, ma'am! I apologize for the contradiction, but it's Fuhrer Grumman's office on the line, ma'am!" He looks earnest and concerned. "The Fuhrer is unwell - he's being taken to the hospital in Central - he collapsed in a meeting, ma'am!"

Riza looks stricken, and they all know that now she's facing a difficult choice. Should she go along to rescue her closest friend, or get the details about her grandfather's illness? Mustang takes the choice out of her hands. "Go take the call, Colonel," he says gently. "I've got enough men - we'll bring Rebecca back safely. See to your grandfather; give him my best."

"Yes, sir." She salutes her husband, looking grateful. Fuery half expects him to at least kiss her before they go, but the years of professional separation are still a habit, and the pair restrict themselves to a brief hand squeeze before they part. It's a squeeze that speaks volumes, though, and he remembers that the Mustangs have always communicated on a separate, subtle level that no one but themselves have ever been able to understand. "Be safe, all of you," she adds, looking seriously at the rest of the group. They nod and smile, waving her off as she follows the sergeant back inside.

They climb into the truck that Douglas has procured for their use, and as soon as they're out of the settled area, he's told to floor it. "How far away is the abandoned vehicle, Lieutenant?"

"From what the travelers said in our interview, we need to travel almost exactly northeast," he replies, eyes on the stark horizon. "The description of their own movements suggested that it's about sixty clicks."

"How long do you think she's been out here?" Havoc asks worriedly. He's smoking again.

"You mean if she's out here in the first place," Breda replies grimly. Then he remembers, and adds, "Sorry. Even if she's not, I know there's got to be a clue."

"Less talking, more watching for signs," Mustang barks, not unkindly.

* * *

"There! Look!"

It seems like hours until they finally spot the dark shape of the truck, and the sun is dipping low in the sky. It's going to take some doing to get back to headquarters before it becomes dark and unbearably cold. It also takes some doing to keep Havoc from jumping out of their own truck before it comes to a complete stop.

"Becky!  _Becky_! Are you here? Answer me!"

"Lieutenant Catalina! Report!"

As they start approaching the abandoned vehicle, they hear it. The smallest, softest groan - it might have been mistaken for the sighing of wind. It's enough to send Havoc tearing toward the truck.

"No! Havoc, it might be booby-trapped!"

It's barely enough to pull him up short, and not enough to keep him from flinging open a door. " _Becky_!"

Sure enough, she's there, a crumpled heap of brown hair and bruised skin. Havoc climbs in and cradles her carefully, gently tapping at her face to try and rouse her. "Gimme the canteen," he orders, all but snatching it from Fuery's hands and bringing it to her lips. "C'mon, Becky...come back to us."

Breda checks her pulse. "Thready, but she's hanging in there. We need to get her back to HQ and have her looked at as quick as possible."

She groans again, and there's a collective sigh of relief as her eyes slowly flutter open. They stare at Havoc, unfocused, and roll slightly as her head lolls against his chest. "Nngh."

"Shh...don't talk. Here - you need to drink." He tips more water into her mouth. Her hands shakily lift to clutch at the canteen, and she sucks the water greedily. "Easy! Not so fast, don't make yourself sick." She chokes a little, sputtering, and she abruptly pushes the water away. Her eyes are clearer; she seems to be remembering something important.

"Trap," she rasps.

"It's booby-trapped?"

"No...don't think so."

They're not taking chances, though. Havoc slides out of the truck and pulls Rebecca into his arms to carry to their own vehicle. She looks around at them, apparently counting heads, and a look of fear crosses her face. "Riza?"

"She's safe," Mustang assures her. "She came back to headquarters - that's how we knew to look for you."

"No, no!" She shakes her head almost violently. Her voice is hoarse, and she seems to have sustained a head injury; she's having a hard time making herself comprehensible to them and it's obviously frustrating her. "It's a trap!"

"What do you mean? Honey, stop shaking your head," says Havoc.

"Took me by mistake...s'Riza they want!"


	6. En Prise

**En Prise**

_Used to describe a piece which is undefended and can be captured._

* * *

Douglas can't drive fast enough to please Roy.

It's not the Lieutenant's fault, of course. He has to be careful; it's growing dark, he doesn't want to jostle the injured Catalina, and there's the fact that the truck can only  _go_ so fast. And Roy knows he's trying. There's a harshness to the set of his jaw that suggests that he too is disturbed by the turn of events. He's not as concerned as the rest of them; Roy figures he can't possibly be, he hasn't known Riza as long as they have and he doesn't love her like they do. But he is worried. Roy appreciates that.

In the back of the truck, the other men are doing their best to tend Rebecca's wounds and force water down her sandpapery throat and get whatever details from her that they can. She hasn't been able to tell them much, and she can't talk as quickly as she'd like.

"When we split up to get out of the way of the truck, there was so much smoke and dust raised by the way they drove," she rasps. "They spun the thing around, and I couldn't see that they were grabbing me until they did. Hit me a few times til I stopped struggling. Took my guns... shoved a sack over my head. Don't know where they took me, but when we got there... guy pulled the sack off my head and started screaming about how they got the wrong one, they were supposed to get the blonde. S'all I really remember... they knocked me out. Woke up a couple times, but couldn't stay conscious."

Roy is silent. Time, time, he needs more time. He doesn't know if he can get there in time.

"She'll be okay," says Havoc, and it's not clear if he's trying to reassure Rebecca or Roy or himself or everyone together. "We left her at Ishval Command - how much safer could she possibly be?"

"Depends on how safe Ishval Command is in the first place," Breda mutters, obviously not wanting Roy to hear him but unable to keep his thoughts to himself. There's a slight scuffling sound, as though Havoc may have socked his friend in the shoulder for voicing his concerns.

Roy is still silent. He supposes that may be worrying them, but he doesn't trust himself to speak. He's angry, and he doesn't want to direct that anger at the people who least deserve it just now. Instead, he stares out into the frigid darkness, and tries to distract himself with a memory. It's an old trick, something he used to do during the war when the nights became too oppressive. Why he selects this  _particular_ memory, he's not sure, except that it does have a few humorous elements to it and right now, he needs that.

* * *

_He walks toward the phone booth with pure bewilderment in his eyes. There sits his devoted Lieutenant, looking pretty and deceptively innocent in her civilian skirt and blouse...but beside her sits what he can only describe as Alphonse Elric's deranged twin. They both rise at his approach, she apologizing for having pulled him from the office at such a strange hour._

_And the...thing...has the temerity to put his hands on her._

_"Hey, toots, who's the chump?" he asks (the voice is detached, but definitely male), and one large mitt-like hand encircles her waist possessively._

_"Back off!" she snaps, pushing him away. That's all Roy needs to see and hear. Despite his sordid reputation, he is a gentleman to the core, and one does not manhandle a lady in his presence without invoking his ire. Especially not_ _**this** _ _lady. He draws the ignition gloves from his pocket, hearing a snarling sound as he does and realizing with a start that it's coming from himself._

 _"Move aside, Lieutenant...there's going to be a_ _**fire** _ _tonight." He hardly recognizes his own voice, the tone is so altered._

_"Colonel, please control yourself." She's slightly agitated, but his response has not surprised her. They've known each other long enough that it shouldn't, really. She explains that the figure is Barry the Chopper, a convicted murderer who is supposed to have been executed, and Roy's anger fades into disbelief._

_They summon Falman, who helps them interrogate the prisoner and confirm his identity, and the arrangements are made for Roy's poor beleaguered bishop to become the thing's keeper for the next few days. Riza gives Barry the order not to chop Falman, and his infatuation with her gets him to agree even to that. She follows Roy out of the warehouse._

_"I'll drive you home," he says, and cracks the smallest smile. "I don't want to run the risk of you capturing anything else tonight."_

_"Oh, damn." She suddenly pinches the bridge of her nose. "I dropped my groceries when he jumped out to attack me. First day off since we got to Central, and that's how I spent it."_

_"All right, come on."_

_They return to the scene of the attack, and she explains exactly what happened. Barry is in love with Riza because she shot at him instead of screaming in fear. Roy is alternately furious (that anything would dare attack_ _**his** _ _Lieutenant), proud (of her), and amused (at Barry's logic for the attraction)._

_The groceries, such as are left, are spilled and broken, not worth salvaging. It's past midnight now, so he just takes her home, but not before noting what it was she bought. Before he goes into the office the next morning, he stops by the market and replaces her purchases, leaving the bag outside her apartment door. She knows who they're from; she doesn't say anything, but when she brings his coffee, the gratitude is in her smile._

In the here and now, he would give much to see that smile again.

* * *

The truck screeches to a halt in front of Ishval Command, and Roy flings himself out of the passenger seat, bolting for the door and leaving the others to bring Rebecca more carefully. Sergeant Sikorsky's shift is over; the night sergeant, a woman who vaguely reminds him of Sheska if he bothers to think about it much, looks alarmed at his entrance. She snaps to attention, saluting him as he skids toward her and stops himself by grabbing the edge of the desk.

"Colonel Mustang - where is she?"

"I haven't seen her, General."

"Is there any word on the Fuhrer?"

"The...Fuhrer, sir?"

"She received a call earlier that he was ill."

"I'm sorry, sir, I only came on duty an hour ago. I wasn't left any details about anything concerning Fuhrer Grumman."

Swallowing a curse, and dimly registering the arrival of the others, he sprints for his office. Surely she left some indication - if not her presence, then a note, or something. Anything to suggest that his worst fears are not coming true.

He throws open the door, and her name dies on his lips. The room is empty save for Black Hayate, who scuttles forward with a whimper; it's clear that he needs to go outside. Roy drops to one knee and gathers the dog in his arms, his alarm growing. "Have you been here all this time, boy?" he asks in a misleadingly steady tone. Now he  _knows_  that something must be wrong, because Riza would never neglect Hayate to such an extreme.

"Chief!"

Breda and Fuery join him; Havoc has hurried to the infirmary with Rebecca, aided by Douglas. Roy stands, handing Hayate to Fuery. "Take him out - he's been locked in here for hours. He needs to be taken home and fed as soon as we can. Breda, help me look around here for some kind of indication of where she is."

There is nothing to find, that becomes swiftly apparent. Roy's skin prickles, somewhere between cold and hot. Everything feels off. He pulls out his watch, reads the time, and snaps it shut again. It's not too late to call Central - almost, but not quite.

He dials the Fuhrer's mansion, gesturing to Breda while he does that he should see who's available to take orders. Breda nods wordlessly and leaves the room, and Roy seats himself at the desk.  _Answer, answer..._

"Fuhrer Grumman's residence. This is Anderson, the chief of staff, how may I assist you?"

"Hello, Anderson, this is General Mustang calling from Ishval." He forces himself to sound calm, if not jovial, although he honestly tries for a cheery tone.

"Good evening, sir! How are things in the east?"

"Freezing, but that's nothing new. I just called to find out how His Excellency is feeling tonight; my wife said something about him being a touch under the weather." Roy is just slightly casual; nothing official about this call, not a bit, he's just the concerned and affectionate grandson-in-law.

There is a slight pause. "No, sir, His Excellency is enjoying very good health. He's just retired for the evening, but if you like I could see if he'll take your call."

_He's not in the hospital. The phone call from earlier was a decoy. Dammit, why did I leave you alone?_

"No, no, that's not necessary, thank you." He plasters a smile onto his face so that it will register in his voice. "I told the Colonel she was worrying for nothing, but you know women!" It's all he can do to keep his chuckle from sounding false. "Please give His Excellency our very best regards when you see him in the morning. We'll be busy for the next few days with our pet project, but he'll hear from us soon."

"Yes, of course, General. Do please give my own regards to the Colonel."

"Absolutely. Have a good night, Anderson."

"Likewise, sir."

While he's been talking, Breda and Fuery have returned to the office, along with Douglas, Scar, and Major Miles. The building is down to a skeleton crew at this hour, so he didn't expect Breda to have any luck finding anyone; he's surprised Miles and Scar were in the vicinity. Roy's hand manages not to shake as he replaces the handset into the phone's cradle.

"Chief?" asks Breda warily.

Roy stands slowly, supporting himself with both fists on the desktop. He doesn't look at them right away, trying to summon all of his strength. The main problem with this is that his biggest source of that particular virtue is currently out of reach, so he has to content himself with faking it in the short term. He raises his head, finally, and the face he presents to his men is a carefully schooled mask of resolve; only his eyes betray him.

"The Fuhrer is safe at home in the mansion and in excellent condition."

The meaning is immediately clear to the three Amestrians; Fuery pales, and Hayate yelps as he accidentally squeezes too hard. Breda's face is dark, while Douglas furrows his brow with concern. The two Ishvalans look only puzzled. "I never would have expected you to regard that as a bad thing, Mustang," says Scar.

Roy's jaw tightens, and he sternly reminds himself that Scar doesn't  _know_. "Colonel Mustang received a call earlier saying that he was hospitalized, and the call kept her from accompanying us on the mission to rescue Lieutenant Catalina. The call was obviously a fake and she is presently missing in action."

Now the comprehension dawns in the two pairs of red eyes. "I'm not issuing this as an order," he continues, looking from one face to the next. "I don't have that right, I think, under the circumstances. I am asking this as a personal favor - maybe I don't have that right either, but I'm asking anyway." His voice is iron, mixed with the palest strain of pure fear, and he grinds out the request, feeling as though he's pulling the words out of his very soul.

"Find. My. Wife."


	7. Passive Sacrifice

**Passive Sacrifice**

_When a piece is sacrificed by moving a different piece, leaving the sacrificed piece under attack._

* * *

As the sun rises, Breda looks around blearily and wonders if anyone got any sleep at all.

No quality sleep, at least. After the General's call to Central confirmed his worst fear - that he was successfully duped into sacrificing his queen - he, Fuery and Breda had all returned to the house. Mustang occupied himself as best he could with feeding Hayate and pulling together some kind of supper for everyone, though they had no appetite. Miles and Scar remain at Ishval Command, as does Havoc, who was encouraged to remain by Rebecca's side.

He supposes Mustang at least made an attempt at sleeping, though he can't be sure; he stayed upstairs this time, and when he comes down, his appearance gives away nothing. Under the circumstances, he would naturally look exhausted even if he did sleep. By the time he enters the kitchen, Breda has already started the coffee, and Fuery has helpfully given Hayate his breakfast and taken him out for a short walk.

"Should we leave him at home today?" he asks the General, who shakes his head.

"Second Lieutenant Black Hayate, in the absence of the Colonel, I'm appointing you to watch my back," he says. The dog gives a firm bark, as though he understands the order; given how strictly disciplined he is, Breda would not be entirely surprised if he does.

Mustang swallows a cup of coffee, looking as though he doesn't taste it, and looks out at the pale morning. "Let's head in to headquarters," he says. "I want a few words with Sikorsky, and we should go and see how Rebecca's feeling. Havoc probably hasn't moved all night."

"Probably," Breda concedes. Havoc has been inching toward possibly proposing to Rebecca for the last few months, and he can't help wondering if this incident might push him over the edge. At least  _something_  good would come out of the whole mess.

* * *

"What do you  _mean_  the phone call was a hoax?"

Havoc seems to be alternating between pale and flushed with anger, like his skin can't make up its mind which is the more appropriate tone of response. As Mustang correctly predicted, he has been in the chair at Rebecca's bedside since they last saw him. For her part, she can only stare at them, open-mouthed and horrified.

"I spoke with Grumman's chief of staff last night. He's in excellent health and nobody called Riza to say otherwise." The General is almost freakishly calm at the moment, but they all know it's only because he has to be.

"So it was a trap, like Becky said."

"It would appear so. Rebecca, do you remember anything about the men who took you? Did you see anything, recognize any accents in their speech, anything at all?"

She shakes her head slowly, eyes slightly unfocused as she mentally reviews the previous day's misadventure. "Two things," she says finally. "The one who yelled at the others for taking me by mistake had a funny way of talking. He rolled his 'R's in a weird way. And he had...well, it was pretty dark so I'm not sure, but I  _thought_  he had white hair, or really pale gray maybe."

"Did he seem older?"

"No, not especially."

"That sounds like it might be an Aerugonian accent," Fuery says thoughtfully. "They're the only ones I know of that roll their 'R's at all. But it's hard to say for sure without hearing it myself."

"Not another international plot," Breda mutters. "Fullmetal's wedding situation was enough for one decade."

"It's something to keep in mind." Mustang is calculating. "She's the only living relative of the leader of the country. It's not  _common_  knowledge, but it's not a huge secret either. I suppose we can expect a ransom message in the near future, or a call from the Fuhrer that he's received one."

"So all we can do is wait?" asks Havoc, incredulous.

"I'm going to speak with Sergeant Sikorsky," the General replies. "Breda, Fuery - you two go to my office and confer with my staff. Douglas is already aware of the situation; brief the others and see if they have any intel that might be of use to us. Havoc...eh, just keep doing what you're doing. Rebecca, get better, that's an order. Hayate, come." They all salute, though it's his retreating figure that they're saluting.

"It's a little weird to see Hayate following  _him_  around," Rebecca remarks.

Havoc sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "That dog's the closest thing they have to a kid," he says ruefully. "Fifty cenz says he doesn't let Hayate out of his sight until Ladyhawk comes home."

No one takes him up on the bet. No one wants to be the one to say  _You mean_ _ **if**_ _she comes home_.

* * *

Apart from Douglas, whom Breda agrees with Fuery appears to be at least basically trustworthy, the Mustangs have three other men working in their office. They all seem a little...Breda can't find a word for it, really.  _Bland_  would cover it tolerably well. From what the Colonel said of them a few days ago, they work hard and say little, and punch in and out like clockwork. They do a good job, but Team Mustang they are not.

The news of their superior's disappearance and probable abduction appears to take them all by surprise, and they react with a tolerably believable level of horror. Breda doesn't really suspect any of them, but that doesn't mean he necessarily trusts them either. He advises them not to make the knowledge public until more information has been acquired; then, for lack of any better ideas, he directs the four of them to pair off and go search the marketplace and surrounding area for clues. "Since that's where Catalina was abducted," he explains, "it's as good a place to start as any."

With the four subordinates thus occupied, the rook and the pawn rejoin the knights in the infirmary. Scar and Major Miles arrive soon afterward; they have been in contact with various members of the Ishvalan community, trying to find out anything they can about the situation, but have little to report. "If there is any sign of her in Ishval, we will know it soon," Miles promises. "Colonel Mustang is not...well loved, given her history, but she has earned the people's general respect in the last few years, and certainly no one wishes her any harm. We'll do what we can to help."

"Thank you for that, Miles," says a voice from the doorway. The General looks exhausted as he joins them, Hayate settling down by his feet once he sits. "Anything?" he asks.

Obeying a look from Havoc, Fuery goes to flag down a nurse and arrange for lunch to be brought to all of them, while Breda gives Mustang what little intel he has to offer. "I have them out scouting the market area. Hopefully something will turn up."

"Sikorsky didn't have anything useful to tell me," says Mustang. His anger is very controlled at this point, but Breda and Havoc both recognize it well. "He said that Riza took the call, and the news was bad, so she asked him to book her on the next train to Central. When I informed him that I'd confirmed for myself that the Fuhrer isn't ill, he just looked confused. I asked if he'd made sure that the Colonel had a formal escort to the train station and he said no, she had refused one."

Mustang leans his elbow on the arm of his chair and leans his face against his palm, rubbing the spot between his eyebrows. He's looking odd, Breda realizes. "Chief?"

"It's nothing. Headache. Suggestions for afternoon reconnaissance?"

"Maybe wait until your other guys get back and see what they have to say? You need to eat, Chief, you didn't have anything but coffee for breakfast." Breda pauses, and then adds, "Ladyhawk will shoot us all if you get sick again while she's gone." Worded this way, it almost sounds like she's nipped off for a holiday at the beach.

"I'm not going to get sick," Mustang replies irritably. "Speaking of, Rebecca, how are you feeling?"

"Better today, thanks." Indeed, her voice is largely recovered; her chief complaints had been exhaustion and dehydration, and although bruises are still blossoming across her fair skin, she looks mostly healthy.

"Doc says she'll probably be out of here this afternoon," Havoc adds helpfully. "One more set of eyes to look for the hawk."

* * *

Lunch arrives. Mustang mostly seems to push the food around on his plate, though at least two or three times he swallows a mouthful. At his order, Breda goes to the train station to verify for sure whether Colonel Riza Mustang boarded a train the previous day that would take her to Central.

"Well, sir, the truth is that I just can't tell you," says the flustered woman in the ticket office.

"And why would that be?"

"The ticket office was broken into last night, sir."

"Broken into?" Breda is almost starting to wonder if this is some grand-scale practical joke, except for the part where it's not funny. "What was taken?"

"Nothing except the receipts for yesterday's ticket purchases. Isn't that strange? Now there's no record of anyone who purchased a ticket yesterday."

"Strange...yeah...very strange."

 _It's not strange at all,_  he thinks _. Someone is doing a really good job of keeping us running in circles. We can't prove anything, we can't deny anything, all we know is that she_ _ **may**_ _have gotten on a train to Central and she_ _ **may**_ _still believe that her grandfather is sick. Whoever's behind this went to a lot of trouble to make sure we look like morons._

By the time he gets back to report this information, Rebecca is formally discharged from the hospital ward, which is the best news they've had all day, and they've moved back to the General's office. The first scouting team, the one which includes Douglas, has returned but the second is unaccountably delayed.

The events of the last two days are taking their toll on Mustang. Riza, Breda realizes, probably would have been able to see it sooner than they do, but by the same token, that would mean she was there among them and the whole thing would be a moot point. There's a glass of water on his desk, and he's not drinking it; he keeps picking it up and rolling the coolness across his forehead. "It's hot in here," he complains when he sees Breda watching.

"Hot? Chief, it's  _winter_."

Mustang is about to retort something witty, or so one may assume, but the sound of running feet in the hall gets everyone's attention. The door bursts open and there are the missing scouts, looking flushed and agitated. Alarmed, the General gets to his feet. "What is it? What have you found?"

"In - in an alley off the marketplace, sir..." One of the scouts - Breda can't remember their names, he doesn't care enough - gulps, and shakes. "Some... ah..."

The second officer takes over for his rattled comrade. "Signs of a struggle, sir. A bloodied shirt matching the one Colonel Mustang was wearing yesterday, and a jammed pistol. And... her dog tags, sir."

The General isn't having this, it seems. He strides around the desk, trying to look as calm as possible. Breda exchanges glances with Havoc and Fuery. "Did you collect the evidence?"

"Y-yes, sir, of course." A braver man than this officer would quail under Mustang's gaze.

"The dog tags..." There's a significance here that Breda isn't grasping yet. "Are you certain they're hers? You definitely identified  _her_  dog tags?"

"Yes, sir, hers...and yours."

 _That_  word seems to make all the difference. As the others watch, Mustang's face turns chalky white, and even though he stands perfectly still, he appears to stumble. "I see."

"Chief?" asks Breda. Their tall, proud, handsome General seems to wither, and as if on cue, he and Havoc step forward quickly to support him on either side. They manage to catch his arms as his knees start to buckle, and almost unthinkingly, Breda puts a hand to the side of Mustang's neck. The skin is on fire.

"He's feverish - let's get him to the hospital ward. Douglas, Fuery, one of you - send for Dr. Marcoh. Easy, Chief, we've got you." Why he suddenly thinks to call for Marcoh, he's not sure, except that they know him and they know he's in Ishval.

* * *

Mustang allows his men to half-carry him through the halls; his own legs will not support him. "I'll be fine," he mutters. "Didn't sleep well, that's all."

"That's all, my ass," Havoc sasses him. "You're burning through your shirt here, General. Can you tell us what's the deal with Ladyhawk's dog tags? How do you know it's legit?"

"How many dog tags do you wear, Havoc?" Mustang asks tiredly.

"Two. Regulation."

"Breda?"

"Same."

"Riza and I each wear three. Have for years, since..." He looks thoughtful. "Not sure how long. Since right after the war, I think. We each wear two of our own and one of each other's."

"Er...why?"

"We told ourselves it was for identification purposes - she didn't know about Grumman back then, so I was technically her next of kin, and most people don't know about Madame Christmas so technically, she was mine too. But it was really just the closest we could get to making some kind of overt commitment." He sighs. "Probably sounds kind of stupid, but...it was  _something_ , even though we weren't supposed to have  _anything_."

"Does anybody else know about this?" Breda asks. "Anybody who could have used that to throw us another curve ball?"

Mustang shakes his head slowly. "They have to be her real tags. Only one other person ever knew, and I'm pretty sure he's not responsible."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because that person was Hughes."


	8. Advanced Pawn

**Advanced Pawn**

_A pawn that is on the opponent's side of the board._

* * *

By the time Tim Marcoh reaches Ishval Command, it's just about dinnertime.

He's greeted at the door by some faces he didn't quite expect to see in Ishval. Three fourths of the men from Mustang's old unit - Fuery, Breda, and Havoc - are waiting for him at the entrance. They salute and greet him and exchange politenesses, but come to the point as soon as they can.

General Mustang, they explain, has a fever. As pronouncements go, he's heard worse. True, the man was deathly ill just eight months prior, forcing the delay of his wedding day and making his bride more anxious than anyone had ever seen her. And it's also true that the sickness had been weakening in its way; it took him some time to regain his proper strength, and Marcoh knows that the experience left the former Riza Hawkeye even more watchful than she had been. They confer, privately, at least once a month because the situation had been so serious, and neither wants to see him suffer a relapse. Still, the doctor is puzzled as to why he's been summoned to attend someone who may have nothing more distressing than a bad cold. It is winter, after all.

But then they tell him the rest of the story.

It's hard to know which should be his principal concern, really, the missing woman or the feverish man. Marcoh opts for the latter, because he knows that the only help he can be to the former is to try to ensure that he's waiting for her when she does come home. ( _When_  she comes home, not  _if_ , it has to be  _when._  The men are insistent upon that and he certainly has no desire to argue.)

Marcoh approaches Mustang's bedside with an odd sense of trepidation. He feels almost as if he has to count his steps, or measure his gait - something, anything, to hold off the inevitable. He can't explain it even to himself, except that if he can slow everything down long enough, even this, it might buy them the time they need to get the medicine Mustang requires. Because the truth is, and he knows it, he is simply not capable of curing what ails the General. He can treat the symptoms - the fever, the aches, the chills - but there's only one thing that can fix the cause, and he does not have it.

He performs the exam slowly, saying little. Pulse and blood pressure, temperature and lung capacity, questions about where it hurts. He shines a light into each of Mustang's eyes; the whites are bloodshot and the irises have lost their fire, but otherwise they look healthy. "They work well enough, I take it?"

"Yes." Mustang coughs into a tissue, choking on the word. The dog which lies across the foot of his bed raises its head, giving its master a questioning glance, but receives a scratch behind the ears that seems to be sufficiently reassuring.

"You think that's a good idea? How'd you get a dog into the infirmary without anybody raising hell about hygiene, anyway?"

"The dog stays with me," Mustang replies in what is almost his normal voice. "It's as simple as that."

"Heh. I forgot that when it comes to you, the usual rules don't always apply," Marcoh says wryly, and the General actually smiles.

* * *

_Marcoh has already healed Lieutenant Havoc's paralysis, and the younger officer is working as hard as they'll allow him, training his legs to regain their old strength. Now it's Mustang's turn. A flash of light and..._

_"Ow," he comments, sounding somewhere between amused and surprised. "That was brighter than I expected."_

_"What do you see?"_

_"You." And he does, that's evident. The cloudiness which has obscured the blackness of Mustang's eyes has lifted, and he holds Marcoh's gaze steadily._

_They play the 'how many fingers' game for a few minutes. "There are some people outside that you're probably very anxious to see," says Marcoh. He had sent everyone out into the hall for the procedure, not wanting Mustang to be overwhelmed by a sea of faces. Granted, this probably was less than fair to the room's other resident patient, but she had consented without protest._

_Mustang nods, looking thoughtful. His eyes, once more clear and sparked with purpose, flick almost unintentionally in the direction of the empty bed. Marcoh stifles a laugh and nods in return, moving to the door. Like nearly everyone else in a ten-mile radius, he knows, and like everyone else who knows, he will humor them in silence. All things considered, they deserve that much._

_The corridor is so packed with bodies that it's very nearly a fire hazard. All of Mustang's unit, including Havoc with a cane, as well as Major Armstrong, the Elric brothers, and a few people he doesn't recognize. Everyone looks at him and seems to be talking at once, asking how it went and if he's okay. Marcoh holds up a hand for silence. "He can see," he announces, and the response is like an explosion of joy._

_"Can we see him?" asks one of Mustang's men; he's not sure which one spoke. He's not sure it even matters. All four of them are united in their love and loyalty for their superior, and whichever one spoke was speaking for them all._

_"One at a time to start, please." Marcoh scans the group. "Lieutenant Hawkeye?"_

_The men shift amongst themselves until the petite blonde emerges. She's clutching a pink shawl around her shoulders, almost obscuring the bandage at her throat. Marcoh has heard from Scar about how she received that injury, and Mustang's unspoken request makes even more sense. "Ladies first," he says, gesturing into the room._

_She approaches the bed slowly, perhaps afraid to seem too eager. Mustang is lying back against the pillows, eyes closed, and not until she ventures to speak does he open them._

_"Colonel? Can you see me?"_

_"Yes." Mustang's eyes are fixed on her face, and she smiles - really, fully smiles, in a way the doctor is not sure he's ever seen anywhere_ _. She is radiant, dark eyes shining and pale cheeks glowing, golden hair framing pure happiness. Marcoh never knew she could smile like that and for an instant, he is almost in love with her himself._

_Mustang is studying her smile, apparently trying to memorize its contours, and his brow furrows. "How is it possible?" he asks. There is a slight strain in his voice, an audible lump in his throat._

_"What?"_

_"How can you be even more beautiful than I remember?"_

_Her cheeks flood with new color, matching the shawl. "Colonel!"_

_He blinks, bemused. "What?"_

_"You're delirious," she says, shaking her head and moving to get back into her own bed. Only then does Mustang realize that they're not alone, but he just smiles at Marcoh, unembarrassed._

_"May as well send in the rest of the three-ring circus," he says placidly._

* * *

"There's not much I can do," Marcoh tells Havoc, Fuery and Breda. Rebecca Catalina has resumed her post at the General's bedside, guarding him in the absence of his usual protector, and the men stand on the far side of the room where he can't hear them.

"What about the Stone?"

"I can't. When he was sick the last time, I offered to cure him that way and he refused." He looks from one to the other, solemn. "It won't do much good anyway. I think you know that."

"He's just going to let himself die?" Havoc all but yells. "He's giving up?"

"Not yet. There's still fight in him," Marcoh replies, gesturing for the younger man to lower his voice. "She's... MIA, right? Not confirmed dead?"

"Right," says Breda grimly.

"Remind him of that. As long as he has hope, he won't give up," says the doctor. "I won't mince words, though. If the worst  _is_  confirmed, there's no telling what he might do in his present condition."

"The Chief is no coward," Fuery objects.

"No, that he's not. But his mind is fevered right now, both literally and figuratively. I can cure the literal fever, but not the other. There's only one antidote for what's poisoning him."

"All his dreams," Havoc mutters, staring across the room at their leader. "All his plans. He's got a backup in place for  _everything_ , you know? There's a plan B for every scenario he ever imagined he might encounter on the way to the top."

"I guess that's the problem," says Breda. "He never imagined getting there without her."

Havoc gestures to Catalina, who joins them. "Becky, I want you to stay with the Chief as much as possible. Don't leave him alone; I don't care what he says, I don't want him alone for a heartbeat. If you need a break or he gives you grief, you call for one of us." She nods slowly, watching his face. Something in Havoc's aspect is changing, shifting. Dimly, Marcoh remembers that when the unit was still together, Havoc was the third-in-command after Hawkeye. "Fuery, get on the wire. Go use an outside line, just in case, and start making calls - we need backup."

"Wh-who should I call?"

"Your first call should be Falman - he has as much right to be here as we do, and maybe he can bring some friends from Briggs. Try Armstrong and his unit. Hell, call Ed Elric. Anybody you can think of who might be willing to make the trek to Ishval." Havoc paces a little, his hands moving as though itching for a cigarette. "Don't sugarcoat. Tell them the truth - Colonel Mustang is missing in action and we're fearing the worst. We need help with searching and with watching over the General. I don't trust him."

"What do you mean?" asks Catalina, and Marcoh can read the fear in her eyes. "You always said you would trust Mustang with your life."

"Oh, I do. I'll always trust him with my life." Havoc's mouth is a grim line. "I just don't trust him with his own."


	9. Counterplay

**Counterplay**

_Active maneuvering by the player in an inferior or defensive position._

* * *

In Resembool, Edward Elric hangs up the phone and stares at it in disbelief.

_Not Hawkeye. Please, not Hawkeye._

He knows he shouldn't think of her that way, but to him she's still Riza Hawkeye, the surprisingly gentle sniper who has always been so kind to him and his brother and Winry. The woman who, if things go the way they're supposed to, will one day stand next to Mustang as he becomes the Fuhrer of the nation and steers it toward democracy.

_Missing? And feared dead?_

It's unthinkable. She's one of the toughest women he's ever met in his life. She's been to hell and back again at least twice - not because she had to go, but because she promised that she would. She's saved his life more than once, saved the lives of many people he knows, saved the life of her husband probably more times than anybody can think to count. She even saved his soul, once.

Who could possibly have...?

"Ed?"

He turns, and Winry stands there with Lucas in her arms. The four-month-old gurgles cheerfully, a stark contrast to his mother's worried expression. "Who was on the phone?" she asks.

"Sergeant Fuery."

"Bad news from Central?"

"No...bad news from Ishval."

The blue eyes widen. "What's happened?"

He outlines it for her briefly. Riza has apparently been kidnapped and there's reason to suspect the worst. As a result, General Codependent has relapsed and developed another fever and is confined to a bed. "His guys are already there - well, most of them, Falman's on his way - and they're looking for other friends to come and help look for her and keep an eye on him. They're apparently worried he'll do something stupid when she's not there to watch him."

He tries to keep his tone sarcastic, but Winry isn't fooled and he knows it. She's perfectly well aware that his relationship to Mustang is not nearly as antagonistic as they like to pretend it is, that the two of them understand each other better than they care to admit. Looking at her, Ed has to concede that if nothing else, he's got a pretty good appreciation for the way the other man feels about his wife.  _If it were you who disappeared...I think I'd lose my mind._

"You're going to go, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I need to be there."

"I'm coming too."

Ed blinks. "What? No, you're not!"

"Oh, yes I am. You just said that they need as much help as they can get, right?"

"Yeah, but -"

"I'll bet none of them have eaten a decent meal since Riza disappeared, I can at least help with that."

"But -"

"And someone has to sit with the General while you're all out searching for her. I have medical training."

"True, but -"

"Ed." She looks very serious. "If the situation was reversed, and I was the one who was taken, you know as well as I do that Riza would come here to help you. So how can I do any less?"

He's not going to win this argument. He can see that already. Resigned, he shakes his head. "Will Granny be all right alone with the baby?"

"I raised  _you_ , didn't I?" says a voice from the next room.

"Did not!"

"Had a hand in it at the least! Compared to you, Lucas is a breeze!"

"Love you too, Granny," he says in a high, forcibly pleasant voice ground out through gritted teeth. Winry just laughs.

* * *

Ishval is still not on a direct line from Resembool, but enough new tracks have been laid in the last few months that the trip is shorter than Ed remembers. - less than ten hours this time, which is a considerable improvement. Kain Fuery greets them at the station, and Ed is taken aback by the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Any developments?"

"Few. The Chief's improved a little, but not much. Dr. Marcoh's taken charge of his care. All we've found of the Colonel are her dog tags and a bloody shirt; we've got search dogs working on her trail, but it's a confused mess, it mostly keeps leading them in circles." Fuery pulls off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Everything about the case is leading us in circles. It was nice of you to come too, Mrs. Elric."

"Just Winry." She seems faintly amused by the formality. "It was the least I could do, you've all been so nice to us. I brought an apple pie but I know it's not going to be enough for everyone, so I want the General to have the first piece."

"I'm sure he'll like that." Fuery gives her a sweet, boyish smile, then grows serious again. "It's like I told you on the phone, Fullmetal. Havoc's in charge right now, and his orders are that the General isn't left alone. We've mostly had Rebecca Catalina sitting guard duty, with either myself or Breda relieving her at intervals."

"Has he given you any reason to think he'll do something stupid? I mean, other than his normal stupid behavior."

"Not yet. He hasn't been saying a whole lot; the fever keeps him fairly quiet. He came down a degree overnight, which Dr. Marcoh says is a good sign - his body is still fighting back."

"So all we have to do is find Hawkeye before he gets the bright idea that it's a lost cause, is that it?"

"That's about the size of it. Dr. Marcoh says that as long as he still has hope, the Chief won't give up. But if... if the worst..." Fuery shakes his head, his mouth suddenly clamping shut. He's too tired, Ed realizes, to tamp down his own emotions, and of the whole Mustang unit Fuery's always been the most tenderhearted.

Winry, naturally empathetic, reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry," she says gently. "Riza's one of the strongest people I've ever met. I just know she'll be all right."

He takes a breath, then straightens, squaring his shoulders and giving a nod. "Thank you for that, ma'am. Er, Winry. I'm sure that's true."

Ed's sure of it too, if only because the alternative terrifies him.

* * *

They go straight to see Mustang, and Ed decides that a mere fever is not reason enough for him to dispense with the usual pleasantries.

"Well, General Bastard," he says cheerfully, dropping into an empty chair, "you're looking resplendent."

"Fullmetal." The older man gives him a bemused semi-smile, while Hayate thumps his tail in greeting as Winry scratches his ears. "Good grief, am I dying? No, wait, am I dead and this is hell?"

"Nah. You wouldn't go to hell if you died, they'd be afraid you'd take over."

"I probably would, too."

"I can picture that, actually. You're already a demon."

"Only when I'm pissed off, which you have a particular knack for making me."

"My talents are many and varied."

"Winry, remind me how this jerk managed to ensnare a beautiful and charming wife like yourself?"

"Wow, that's the pot calling the kettle black."

Instantly Ed regrets the last shot, because while Riza is certainly beautiful, and can be utterly charming when she wants to be, the comment only serves to reinforce the reminder that  _she's not here._  Mustang wilts, almost imperceptibly, but doesn't say anything. The pause that follows is awkward.

"I brought you something, General," says Winry, helpfully trying to fill the silence. She opens the package she carried on her knees on the train from Resembool. "I remember how much you enjoyed my apple pie when you came to visit us for the wedding."

"That's very thoughtful of you, but I really haven't had much of an appetite."

"I know." Her eyes reflect nothing but gentle sympathy. "But you need to eat. Your body needs nourishment if you're going to recover from your illness, and we all need you to get better so you can..." Her voice cracks, slightly, and she suddenly switches gears into anger in order to hide her fear. "So you can find the jerks who caused all this trouble and beat the tar out of them!" Mustang's eyes widen, astonished, as she continues, "No excuses! You're eating a piece of this pie and you're going to like it!"

"...yes, ma'am," he says finally, meekly. He glances at Ed in some kind of shock. Ed just smiles and shrugs.

Really, their wives are a  _lot_  alike, he has to admit.

* * *

Ed confers with Havoc and Breda while Winry makes sure Mustang eats the pie.

"I'm glad we brought you in, Fullmetal," Havoc says. "From what I overheard of your conversation, that's the most he's sounded like himself since all this started."

"My natural charm displays its advantages once again. Meanwhile, how can I help you with the rest of the problem?" He knows what the Mustangs - both of them - mean to these men. He knows what they mean to himself. "As far as that goes, how did you all get here so fast? I thought you said she went missing... what, two days ago now?"

"We were already here." Breda glances around, but sees no one outside of their trusted cadre except for Winry, who pretty much holds honorary status anyway; all the same, he lowers his voice. "You know the chess code, right? Chief said you do."

"Yeah...?"

"We received an encoded message last week, asking us to come to Ishval because they were in danger of checkmate. But when we got here, everything was fine. Then this all went to hell."

"That's...oddly convenient."

"That's what we thought. We're not sure if we've been lured  _to_  Ishval or  _away_  from Central, and we still don't know why someone would do either one. We don't know who sent the message, either."

"I thought Mustang kept a tight lid on that particular code."

"He does," Havoc interjects. "I was surprised that he even told you - I never knew he told anyone outside of the five of us, and Maes Hughes."

"Strange. All right, well, tell me what's been done so far, and I'll try to think of something else we can do."

They outline the steps taken - scouring the office for bugs, interviewing the new staff, checking the train station, searching the market. Ed flinches only when the bloodied shirt is shown to him. It's her usual black short-sleeved turtleneck, all right, and the metallic tang that a brief sniff leaves in his mouth identifies the stain as definitely being blood. He frowns, studying it. "The shirt's not damaged, so where did the blood come from?"

"We wondered that too. Might not be her blood," says Breda.

Havoc snorts. "This is Ladyhawk we're talking about. It's almost  _definitely_  not her blood."

"Fair enough, but if that's the case, why would she take off her shirt?" Ed asks.

"That part we can't figure out."

"Fuery said something about her dog tags being found too? And they're definitely hers?"

"See for yourself."

Sure enough, the set of three tags is unmistakable - two are labeled  _Hawkeye, Riza,_  and sandwiched between them is one bearing the name of  _Mustang, Roy._  "She didn't get updated tags for her married name, huh?"

"Not yet, no. Mustang says they've been requisitioned but they haven't come through. He about passed out when they told him they were found...he said nobody except Hughes knew that they each carried one of each other's tags, so they had to be legit."

"That also doesn't make sense, though," Ed points out. "Why would she take off her shirt  _and_  her tags, and leave them where you guys found them? What would be the logic? Hawkeye never does something that's not logical - well, almost never," he amends, recalling what Al said about her confrontation with Lust.

"Someone else removed them?" Havoc guesses, his eyes dark.

"But for what purpose?"

"Bait - a trap?"

"Or a false clue. Something else to keep us moving in circles," Breda muses. "Like the receipts at the train station, keeping us from determining whether she really left of her own volition. Either whoever called managed to convince her that the Fuhrer really is ill, and she went to board the train like Sikorsky said only to be waylaid en route, or..."

"Who is this Sikorsky guy, anyway?"

"Desk sergeant. He answered the call, and said that she had him book her train ticket."

"Where is he now?"

"Douglas said it's his regular day off," says Havoc.

"And Douglas is...?"

"One of their new team. He drove the truck when we rescued Becky."

"Are these guys on the level, you think? What if they're in on it?"

Before either of them can answer, Major Miles enters the room. He and Ed exchange nods of greeting, but the Major's mouth is a thin line. "There has been a sighting," he says quietly, evidently not wanting Mustang to hear. "It's not much more than a rumor at this point. But one of my men has spoken with someone who claims to have witnessed a struggle between an Amestrian woman and three Ishvalan men two nights ago."

"Where?"

"Not far from where the Colonel's property was discovered. The report is extremely vague, we're attempting to verify it now."

"Ishvalans?" Havoc repeats. "That's really...with all due respect to your men, Major, that doesn't seem like something Ishvalans would do."

"It's not." Miles is pretty close to being angry. "But I haven't yet determined whether the report is false or if these are renegades."

"Better question," says Ed, "is why, if this guy saw the attack happening, he didn't do anything  _about_  it."

"According to the report, the witness is a Xingese man who entered the region without travel documents. He feared to get involved in the incident because he didn't want to attract attention."

"That's a poor reason not to help somebody in trouble," Breda grumbles.

"Agreed. I have my doubts as to the veracity of the report. But I'm very concerned about it being spread around. I don't want anyone getting the idea that Ishvalans are attacking Amestrians." Miles looks grim, and Ed can only imagine the reaction some people might have to such a rumor. "I'll keep you informed of any new developments that arise, of course."

"Thank you very much, Major. Meanwhile, we'll keep this to ourselves - we don't want anything to happen either."

"How is the General?"

"Still feverish. Ed was sensible enough to bring his wife along to babysit," says Havoc, glancing over to where Winry and Mustang are talking quietly. Ed decides to just accept the lopsided praise without argument.


	10. Kingside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to a chapter that has next to no bearing on the plot whatsoever. This particular chapter was not planned when I outlined the story (to the extent that I did such a thing), and I never really intended to write it. But while I was driving to work, Roy and Winry started having this conversation in my mind, and I decided that it needed to go into the story because... well, I'm an incurable sentimentalist. And I believe that Roy, in his most secret heart, is one too.

**Kingside**

_The side of the board where the kings are at the start of a game, as opposed to the queenside._

* * *

"No more," the General pleads, with a puppyish expression he almost certainly learned from Black Hayate.

Winry chuckles. "All right. You ate a whole piece and a half; I'm satisfied."

"It  _is_  very good, Winry."

"Thank you." She smiles at him and closes the box, then refills his water cup. "Can I do anything for you?"

"Not...not really, no." He's propped up against the pillows in a mostly-reclining position, and his skin is flushed from the fever; his hair is mussed and slightly damp. The hands that rest atop the sheets do not tremble, but they seem pale and lifeless, even though they have the power to summon fire in an instant. His eyes no longer sparkle the way she remembers, and for some reason Winry finds that the saddest of all. She picks up a soft cloth and rinses it in a basin, then sponges his face. "Thanks."

"Here, drink." She angles the straw at his mouth and he takes a reluctant sip.

"I'm getting tired of being coddled," he mutters.

"Funny, I would have taken you for someone who likes being fussed over when he's sick."

"Usually," he admits. "Not this time."

Winry thinks she understands what he means. He doesn't want to be coddled because he doesn't want to be in here. He wants to be out in the streets, searching, interrogating, solving. This is a task he does not want to delegate to his subordinates, however much he trusts them. He wants to be the one to find his wife, the first one to see her and hold her and know that she's alive.

She needs to divert him, somehow. And she knows that she can't get him to think about anything but Riza - to her mind, it would seem almost cruel to even try. So after a moment or two of silence, she comes up with a different plan.

"General..."

"Roy, Winry. You can call me Roy."

"Roy." She smiles. "Would you do something for me?"

"Gladly, but I'm not up to much more than talking right now, so I hope it's nothing too strenuous."

"But talking is all right?"

"Sure."

"Well, I've just been wondering," she says carefully. "Would you mind telling me how you and Riza met? I don't actually know. All Ed ever said was that it's something like us, that you sort of grew up together, but not quite the same thing."

"That's about as much as he knows. Hmm." A smile curls the corners of his mouth, and the faraway expression that settles over his features makes him look much younger. It's kind of adorable, really, Winry thinks. He speaks slowly, a little hesitantly, his voice not quite hoarse but very soft and tired-sounding. "Well, you know that I'm the Flame Alchemist...I'm the second one. The first was Riza's father."

"Riza's father was an alchemist?"

He nods. "I was his apprentice. He was a great alchemist, a great teacher... not such a great father, unfortunately. But that's how we met. I was fourteen, and she was... not quite thirteen."

"Was she pretty?"

"Yes, but... I didn't know it, then." He chuckles. "She was just a kid, to me, and I was more interested in alchemy than girls at that point."

Winry laughs. "Ed really  _is_  a younger version of you."

"In some respects," Roy admits grudgingly.

"So when did you notice?"

"About a year or so later... no, two. I lived with them, off and on, for about six years, and I had gone home for a few weeks. I came back... and it was like I'd never seen her before. I was sixteen and she had just turned fifteen and..." His face scrunches up in mild confusion. "I don't know how to describe it. The light was hitting her differently, or something... she was just... she..."

Winry realizes that he's abruptly gotten lost in the haze of memory and fever. But he looks happy, for the first time, so she lets him wander in his thoughts for a few minutes before clearing her throat. "Go on."

"I couldn't say anything... her father didn't let her... date. So I'd... sit in the kitchen and watch her cook. Or help her with her homework - well, I'd try, she didn't usually let me help. I just liked to be near her."

"I know what you mean."

"She had short hair, then, like she did when we first met you. Actually, it was meeting you that made her decide to grow it... she liked your hair."

"Really?" Winry smiles. "I got my ears pierced because I liked how hers looked."

"Never did understand how she got that done... her father was so strict. Then again, maybe he never noticed... sometimes he seemed to look right through her. She was so... lonely."

"She had you."

"Yes." He turns his head slightly, a faint smile playing about his lips again. "We'd... go for walks sometimes, things like that. She lived in a remote area, like your house, so I'd go into town with her and carry home the groceries. She let me do that much... she was so... independent. But I loved that about her. So strong... she's always been strong." He laughs quietly. "It was kind of pathetic, maybe. Since I was sixteen years old, I've been ruined for other women... my carefully cultivated reputation as a womanizer notwithstanding."

"Ed says that a lot of that was subterfuge."

"He's right. I did take a few women out on real dates, but never more than once. Most of the women... the ones I saw multiple times... they were informants. I wanted people to think... I was just after one thing. So they'd underestimate me. But Riza... always knew the truth... so please don't think I lied to her. I wouldn't... hurt her that way." He pauses often in his sentences to take a breath. His lungs don't seem to be taxed, however; it seems to be more about finding the strength to do justice to his words, to give them proper vehemence.

"I know you wouldn't. But you never told her, back then, how you felt about her?"

"I tried. Well, sort of tried. We did have one date."

"You did?"

He nods, looking a touch drowsy, or maybe just dreamy. "Her final year of school... she wanted to go to the winter formal. There was this group of girls... they teased her a lot, and she just... wanted to do something like a normal girl. So she begged Teacher to let her go. He said only if I took her... he trusted me slightly more than other boys, I guess because he knew how to threaten my life. She hated asking me, but I... I was happy to go..."

"Somehow I don't doubt that. What happened?"

His smile is crooked. "She wore this... burgundy velvet dress that was her mother's. I remember it took three days for her to scrub out the smell of moth balls. There was... no money, you see, for something new. But I sneaked off to town... and bought her a pair of earrings. They weren't... fancy, but it was all I could afford. I was trying to show her... how I felt." He glances at Winry, and she imagines she can still see in his expression the lovestruck teenager he had been. "I think she got the message... she still wears them every day."

"The silver studs?"

"Mmhmm. And when she opened the box... I'll never forget the way she smiled at me..."

"That was so sweet of you!"

"I was happy to take her, you know? She kept... apologizing... for the inconvenience. But I was happy. She was so... so pretty, and I got to pretend, for a whole night, that she was... mine."

"What about the mean girls?"

"They were shocked. I don't blame them... I'm a pretty good-looking guy, you know." He grins, weakly, a flash of his old self evident just for a moment.

Winry can't help a small giggle. "Did you kiss her?"

"On the cheek. I was scared to do more than that, thought her father would kill me... but I wanted to... very badly." He smiles.

"She probably felt the same way."

"Yeah, but I didn't know that until later. Sometimes... I still feel like that same kid, like I'm still just... pretending she's mine. But then the day ends and I don't have to let go of her. I waited... so many years for that."

He looks so sad now, and almost lost. Winry's heart breaks for him.

"You two fit together beautifully," she says. "You know, back when I first met you both, Riza told me that she didn't like being in the military. But she had to be in it because there was someone that she needed to protect. Even back then I knew she meant you."

Roy gives her a small, grateful smile. "Fullmetal's a lucky man, Winry."

"So are you."

"I know... but I'm afraid my luck's run out now." He sighs, and shakes his head. "Ishval is taking its revenge on me at last. I did so many terrible things here... and now I'm paying for it. Divine retribution."

"You're very sick, Ge- _Roy_ ," she amends, reaching out to feel his forehead. He's still extremely warm. "Don't think about such things. You need to get better."

"Am I sick?" he murmurs. "I'm not surprised... I've been left out in the rain for the last day at least."

"Rain? It hasn't been raining."

"Oh, yes... it's raining." He turns over, then, curling himself around the spare pillow and pressing his hot face into its comparitive coolness. A pillow is a poor substitute for a Riza, Winry knows, but it's all he has right now.

* * *

After a few minutes of worrisome silence, Roy lets out a faint snore, and Winry sighs with relief. He's gone to sleep; it can only help with the healing. She sees that the men have concluded their meeting. Major Miles and Breda have left the area, though where they've gone she doesn't know, and only Havoc and Ed are still there. She pulls the covers up more securely around Roy's shoulders and walks quietly over to join them.

"Hey, Winry... how's the Chief?" asks Havoc.

"He's sleeping. Um, before he fell asleep, though?"

"What? Did he say something?"

"We were having a nice talk, actually." She smiles. "I got to hear how he and Riza met. But then he got... really sad. He says Ishval's having its revenge on him."

Ed looks pale. "He couldn't have heard what Miles said, could he?" he hisses, looking at Havoc.

"Not a chance."

"I think he was speaking metaphorically," Winry clarifies, wondering what in the world Major Miles could possibly have said. "I told him he shouldn't let himself get upset, because he's very sick and he needs to get better. And he said..." She hesitates.

"Said what?"

"I don't get it at all, to be honest. He said he's not surprised that he's sick, because he's been out in the rain. When I told him it hasn't rained, he insisted that it's raining now."

Havoc and Ed exchange glances. "Yeah, I guess to the Chief, it must be pouring right about now," says Havoc grimly.

"What does that mean?"

"Well, it doesn't apply now so much, since he can do the flame alchemy by clapping his hands," Ed explains. "But before the Promised Day, he usually did his thing by putting on a pair of special ignition gloves that would help him start the fire. If the gloves got wet, though, they wouldn't work."

"So Ladyhawk always teased him by telling him he was useless in the rain," says Havoc quietly, scratching a hand errantly in his hair. "I guess... that's how he's feeling now. Useless."

"More like helpless," says Ed.

"He's just... so sad." Winry has tears in her eyes, and Ed wraps his arm around her shoulders. "Isn't there  _any_  news about Riza?"

"Nothing definite. We're chasing down a couple possible leads, but we don't want to get his hopes up until we have better information," Havoc says, glancing uneasily at his beloved commander.

"He misses her so badly," she says softly. "What does Dr. Marcoh say about his condition?"

"Right now? It could really go either way. He could get better or he could... not."

She notes his refusal to identify death by name.


	11. Queenside

**Queenside**

_The side of the board where the queens are at the start of a game, as opposed to the kingside._

* * *

Initially, all Riza registers is the black.

After another moment or two of consciousness, it comes to her attention that her hands are bound, and that her arms stretch upwards uncomfortably.

Her head aches from the blow she received, that's the next thing she observes.

And now it catches her notice that she is, in fact, moving. Or rather, the thing in which she finds herself is moving. A truck, maybe. She's lying on her back in a moving vehicle.

She gives herself a good proper shake, sitting up carefully. The rope which binds her wrists together seems to descend from above her, like she's tied to the roof of the vehicle. That's important to know; it accounts for the fact that her arms are still reaching upwards, and feel as though all the blood has drained from them. Furthermore, it's  _only_  rope... not cuffs or anything stronger than she is. Very important to know.

One thing she still doesn't know... what the hell happened?

She gets to her feet, unsteady in the bouncing truck, using the rope for balance. This allows her to put her arms down - to some extent at least - and she almost groans as the blood races through her veins to put the strength back into her tingling limbs. She's obviously been stripped of her guns, and after a moment's mental assessment she realizes that some other things are missing too, most particularly her shirt. Thankfully she's taken to wearing a thermal undershirt in these winter days, which is still crisply tucked into her pants (well, as crisply as it could be, under the circumstances), or she'd be very concerned that whoever kidnapped her might have seen the partial array on her back. Of course, thinking of the tattoo leads her mind instantly to...

 _Roy_.

Damn it all, where is Roy? How long has she been... wherever she is? He'll go out of his mind with worry if she's missing for too long.

_Think, Riza. How did you end up here?_

She breathes deeply, calming her thudding heart. She has to think of what happened so she knows what to do.

* * *

_Having waved the others off on their mission to rescue Rebecca, Riza follows Sergeant Sikorsky back into Ishval Command. He leads her to the phone, then excuses himself to give her some privacy. She picks up the receiver, fully expecting to hear the voice of any one of her grandfather's trusted subordinates or even that of Anderson, the chief of staff in the mansion._

_Instead, she hears only silence. "Hello?"_

_There is no answer. She starts to turn in order to call out to Sikorsky, and it's just enough to allow her to catch sight of a shadow out of the corner of her eye. Then everything goes dark._

_She comes to a while later, finding herself dangling upside down over somebody's shoulder. She's not fully conscious, though, and her blood pulses in her ears so it's difficult to listen to the conversation. They're in a shadowy, somewhat smelly location that she doesn't altogether recognize. But as her eyes slowly open and adjust to the inky twilight, she sees something that she desperately needs._

_The person carrying her has a gun. And she can reach it._

_Obeying instincts born out of years of military training, she bends one leg at the knee and kicks her beast of burden in the chest, or maybe the abdomen, she can't quite tell. It's not a powerful kick, but enough to startle him, and she uses his moment of distraction to lunge for the pistol. She shoots, grazing his calf, which sends them both tumbling to the ground. As she tastes the gravel under her lips, she realizes they're in some kind of alleyway. She's still woozy, still struggling for clarity._

_"Bitch!"_

_She rolls into position in order to shoot him again, but the pistol jams. Damn it all. In a last-ditch attempt to subdue him, she throws the faulty weapon at his head, but he deflects the blow easily._

* * *

As near as she can tell in the here and now, he took her shirt to bandage his wound. The distinct absence of a weight around her throat suggests that her dog tags may have come off at the same time. Or perhaps they were taken to be sent back to Ishval Command, or even to Central, as proof of life.

She's not, however, entirely helpless. Willing herself to ignore the throb in her skull, she reaches up carefully. Yes, the clip is still in her hair, and she removes it gingerly, letting the tangled mass fall. The edge of the metal portion isn't the sharpest, for obvious safety reasons, but it's her best chance. She works it repeatedly over the knot at her wrists, hoping the rope is dry enough or weak enough or  _something_  enough that she can cut through the fibers.

Twice she almost drops the clip when the truck bounces unexpectedly, and only her sniper's reflexes let her keep clutching it. It's becoming slick with sweat as she works feverishly at the groove she's created, despite the frigid winter air.

As she cuts she strains her wrists, trying to weaken the rope. The burns she's going to get from this will be terrible, she knows, but anything will help at this point. A little farther. A little farther. She bites her lip to keep from crying out from the pain.

She's still woozy from what she imagines are two separate head injuries, and while she slavishly rubs the clip back and forth in the slowly deepening groove, her mind wanders. She wonders what Roy is doing, if he's all right, if they got Rebecca back safely. Are the men okay, can they get him through this? They've come this far... surely it's not going to end this way, with her abducted and taken to parts unknown to possibly die while he waits and wonders and... no, it can't.

* * *

_It's after her father's funeral, after he's admitted to her his 'youthful' dream of a world in which things are different. She loves the dream like she loves him, so she offers him the only thing she has to give - the secrets encoded on her skin. It's the day after the burial that he comes to the house and sees her back, sees the full extent of her father's brilliance and also the full extent of his daughter's eagerness to earn his approval._

_"How could he..."_

_"It was my choice."_

_"I know you, Riza. You didn't have much of a choice." And she can't argue with him because he does know her, and he's right._

_Roy is a tolerably quick study, and though at first she hesitates to allow him to make notes, he promises to burn them once he's mastered the flame. She trusts him, on a level where she has never trusted anyone else (and, as she eventually grows to understand, a level where she never_ _**will** _ _trust anyone else). That much is absolute, and is something she has known for a while. She barely remembers her mother, and she's never been able to make her father look at her for more than a heartbeat or two. In nineteen years, the only genuine affection she has ever known has come from Roy - though carefully, cautiously, slinking around the edges of her father's unspoken disapproval. She has been greedy in her return of it, selfishly latching onto him and burdening him with the weight of her own fondness, desperate for someone to love who will not push her away._

_He never does. If anything, Roy pulls._

_So he studies, and makes notations, and mutters under his breath, and at some point his fingers find their way into her hair, and she's not entirely sure how the kiss happens but it does. It's slow and delicate and perhaps just slightly confused in its tenderness. It's everything she thought it would be and nothing like she expected. It doesn't stop at one, but it's not enough, not nearly enough._

_But it's enough to make her decide to follow him to Ishval. By the time she finds him he's already befriended Maes Hughes, and they become something of a united trinity unto themselves. Riza likes Hughes very much; she likes the sheen in his eyes when he speaks of his sweetheart, likes his oddball personality, and particularly likes the way he's so obviously fond of Roy. Most of all, though, she likes the fact that he can sense whatever it is that lies between Roy and herself, and he evidently approves, because whenever he ribs Roy about getting himself a wife - in Ishval and after - she knows what he's not saying._

_Opportunities for them to be alone together show up here and there, like unexpected fragments of stone in the rubble, but they only take advantage of two and only because they just can't pretend anymore that they don't need. They don't say anything about it; they've already reached the point where words are optional for them. It's just two people caught in a hell they don't understand, but it can be ignored for the sake of an hour in which they get to feel something that isn't despair and self-loathing. What they have is not soft and subtle, now, but frantic and demanding and it reminds them that they're still alive and that, even in the midst of this hell, they're still together. That, Roy tells her a long time afterward, keeps him sane._

_The war ends but a smaller one, the one that's strictly inside of themselves, carries on and carries them away to the office where she makes her pledge. It's a dangerous assignment. Not the bodyguard duty; she can handle that. No, the danger lies in their proximity, their connection. Every day is just another battle in that smaller conflict - the fight to keep themselves apart when all they want or need is to be together. Every time one of them brushes death, the other wants to surrender, to stop waging that particular war, to just give it a name and stop pretending to everyone around them that it doesn't exist. (Because really, who are they fooling?) But neither feels that they deserve it. All they want is to get_ _**out** _ _of the mess, and the only way to get out is by going further in. Always together and always apart._

_Until they're not, anymore. Suddenly the small war is over. They don't have to fight it. They can surrender._

* * *

She's happier, now, than she knows she has any right to be. What she deserves is not what she's been given. Fate has been suspiciously kind, until this point, and even though they've tasted less than a year's worth of contentment, it's so much more than she ever thought she'd get that she can't bring herself to be resentful.

If she dies, she dies happy. She dies loved and, more to the point, knowing that she is loved and knowing that she was herself finally allowed to love.

Having acknowledged that, however, she also has to acknowledge that she has absolutely no intention of dying if she has anything to say about it.

She is, after all, under orders not to die.

And as that thought crosses the threshold of her mind, another fiber snaps under the friction of her efforts, and she strains ever harder. It's yielding... it is, it is... a little more...

Her hands suddenly fly apart as the rope breaks, and she muffles a shriek of relief. She doesn't know how long she has until they reach their unknown destination, but she wants to be ready. She massages her wrists, wincing and wishing for something to protect them from the cold until they can be properly treated for the rope burns, and replaces the clip in her hair. She squints through the dark at the rope still attached to the roof of the truck, tugs to get an idea of its strength. She might be able to use this.

When the truck stops and the back opens, she may go down but she's taking at least one of them with her... whoever they are.


	12. Absolute Pin

**Absolute Pin**

_A pin against the king, called absolute because the pinned piece cannot legally move as it would expose the king to check._

* * *

The sun is rising for the third time since Colonel Mustang's disappearance, and Lieutenant Paul Douglas feels like it's been about a week since he - or anyone else - has properly slept.

He has served under both Mustangs in their Ishvalan office since earning his lieutenant's bars last summer. It was by his own particular request that he got the assignment, a fact which he knows must have always looked at least a little suspicious. But he has been very diligent, giving no one any reason to question his loyalty, and at the same time carefully keeping himself from associating too closely with his superiors, lest he be accused of currying favor. Not that he wouldn't like to associate with them - they are everything he was ever told they were, and he has not only the utmost respect for both of them but a genuine liking as well.

She, the Colonel, is stern and cool and efficient, independent and something of a perfectionist. But she's also gentle and warm and kind, rarely going anywhere without the little dog who adores her. She's the one who arranges framed photos of their old friends on the General's desk, the one who goes to an Aerugonian bakery every Friday morning to buy pastries for the men in the office, the one who keeps a box of spare hats and scarves in the closet so that no one gets sick from walking home in bad weather. He has heard, from more than one source, how much she is loved by many who know her, and he sees it now firsthand in the eyes of those who have traveled to Ishval to help bring her home.

He, the General, seems like her opposite - brash, indolent and self-indulgent. He was once alleged to be the worst womanizer in the country, a reputation which still brings a silly grin to his face if it gets mentioned even now. But he's also deeply concerned with the future of Amestris, and with doing everything in his power to restore prosperity to Ishval. Douglas has seen him reading reports and making calls at moments when he should have been eating lunch or going home. He is relentless, determined, and jovial. The unit of which Douglas is a part is not as dear to him as the legendary Team Mustang - which is why Douglas, at least, is willing to let them take charge of the current fiasco - but he is still bluff and kind with them, not forgetting the name of Dorset's wife or to send Mason home early to celebrate his elderly father's birthday.

They, the pair, are a source of fascination to him, and have been for years. Before he ever had a thought of Ishval in his mind, he'd heard about their extraordinary partnership - the ceaseless devotion to each other's well-being, the unswerving commitment to protect those around them, and the unstoppable love that, in spite of laws and interferences, absolutely refused to be denied. Even if he'd never heard anything about  _that_ , he would have figured it out within a week of reaching Ishval Command. It's always there, unspoken, in every cup of coffee she brings him and every flash of his eyes when he glances at her. Douglas has admired them from a distance for a long time, but watching firsthand as they put duty ahead of passion only added to that. When the law that separated them was repealed and the fever broke, and they returned from Central with one name, he drank a toast to them and made damn sure he sent a nice gift. It was, he felt, the least he could do at the time.

The General is almost certain to succeed the Colonel's grandfather as Fuhrer, and Douglas has every intention of helping him get there. It's a promise he made when he entered the academy, and one he means to keep. Still, he'd be lying if he didn't admit that right now, he's having trouble just keeping his eyes open.

* * *

It's starting to look pretty discouraging. Dr. Marcoh has been attending General Mustang, helped by the pretty wife of Edward Elric. (The Fullmetal Alchemist is another one whose name Douglas grew up hearing, and he wishes that the circumstances which finally allowed him to meet the hero of Amestris could have been less dire.) The patient is improving physically, but his morale is so low that his health remains a question mark. Meanwhile, the only news of the Colonel has been in the form of a largely unintelligible report from a Xingese man who made an illegal border crossing and doesn't seem to know what it is he actually  _saw_. The anticipated ransom demand has yet to materialize.

"It's not looking good, is it," says Mason mournfully, as he and Douglas return from another fruitless patrol. "I thought we would have heard  _something_  by now."

"I know. It's just strange."

They make their way into Ishval Command, exchanging halfhearted greetings with Sikorsky at the front desk, and continue down the hall. "Should we go visit the General, do you think?" Mason wonders. He's only a sergeant, not long out of the academy, and has a tendency to follow where Douglas leads.

"I guess we could go see how he's feeling, if nothing else." Douglas doesn't relish going to the infirmary just to say  _hi, we still haven't found anything, hope you're better._  But he has no other ideas.

"I wish we had some news to tell him," says Mason, as though reading Douglas's thoughts.

"Me too."

They're almost to the elevator that will take them to the hospital area when Douglas groans, and pats his pockets. "Lieutenant Havoc asked me to pick up a pack of cigarettes for him, and I forgot. Do you mind if we run back out?"

"Oh, sure, no problem."

They head back to the front desk, but as they get close, Douglas slows his pace and motions for Mason to do likewise. He can hear Sikorsky's voice, and the desk sergeant sounds uncharacteristically agitated. "I told you never to call me on this line!"

Something feels off. Douglas touches a finger to his lips, indicating to Mason that he should keep quiet. "Go," he says, very softly. "Head straight for the infirmary. Get Havoc, Fullmetal - whoever you can find."

"And tell them what?"

"Bring them to the front desk. Hurry."

As Mason hurries back to the elevator, Douglas draws his pistol and advances slowly. Peering around the corner, he sees that Sikorsky is still on the phone; he's clutching the receiver to his ear and all but hissing his words.

"First you grab the wrong one, and then when I practically gift-wrap her for you, you still screw up!" He pauses. "Right. Right... yes... look, I don't  _care_. Is she dead or not?"

Douglas is chilled to the bone.  _So that's how it happened..._ _ **he**_ _tricked her into taking that call._

"I want it done tonight. This is dragging out too long - we keep holding off and they're going to figure it out. Do whatever you have to do, but get it done!" Sikorsky slams down the receiver.

"That's quite enough, Sergeant." Douglas advances, holding his gun on the other officer. "I'm placing you under arrest for kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder."

"You can't prove anything."

"I heard enough to put you away. Besides, my money says that Sergeant Fuery has tapped every phone in this building." Sikorsky flinches slightly and raises his hands, moving out slowly from behind the desk. "Don't move any farther," Douglas adds. "We'll have company shortly."

A clatter of boots echoes in the hallway, giving proof to his words, and Mason, Havoc, Fuery, Falman, Breda, and Fullmetal all come tearing into view a moment later. They skid to a halt at the sight of the bewildering face-off. "Lieutenant?"

"Thank goodness you're here!" says Sikorsky. "Douglas was going to shoot me! He thinks I'm responsible for Colonel Mustang's abduction!"

"I heard him on the phone with his collaborators."

"He's lying!"

"You know, Sikorsky, I have to admit," says Breda, "we've been wondering about a few things."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that you were the last person to see Ladyhawk before she went missing," says Havoc.

"And the fact that you would allow a high-ranking officer, who  _also_  happens to be the Fuhrer's granddaughter, to travel unescorted at night," adds Fuery.

"So if we can only believe one of your stories," Breda concludes, "I kind of think we're picking Douglas."

Sikorsky looks unimpressed. "It's his word against mine."

"Not for long," says Fullmetal. "Once Fuery traces that last call, we'll have it. What do you bet he turns up something  _really_  interesting when he does?"

"A trace won't do you any good." Sikorsky reminds Douglas of a cornered animal. His eyes dart around, trying to spot a place where he can claw his way free. "You still won't find her."

"So you do know where she is!"

"I never said that. I just said that tracing my call won't help you find her."

"What did you hear him say, Douglas?"

Douglas grimaces, and tightens his grip on his piece. "He told them that they need to kill her by tonight."

"I've heard enough."

Eight heads swivel in the direction of the new voice. General Mustang has managed to slip out of the infirmary and follow them. He almost looms over Sikorsky, somehow very intimidating in his hospital-issue garments. His face is pale, his appearance wholly disheveled, but there's a fire in his eyes that hasn't been seen since the night the Colonel vanished.

"You can stand down, Douglas," he says, and the slight softness in his voice is somehow more frightening than any growl could be. A bit dazed, Douglas obediently lowers his pistol. "Now, Sikorsky, you were telling your fellows to do...  _what_... to my wife?"

"I'm... I'm not saying anything else." It's almost impressive that he can still be this defiant.

Mustang, however, is not impressed. With a strength that Douglas is pretty sure none of them realized he still possessed, he strides confidently forward and seizes Sikorsky by the throat. Lifting him into the air, he slams him back against the wall, pinning him in place. The others can only stare, shocked by the brutal gesture from their feverish commanding officer. When he speaks, his voice is still unnervingly soft, though it grows increasingly infuriated and deadly.

"I'm only going to say this once, so listen closely. I am Brigadier General Roy Mustang. I am the Flame Alchemist. I have walked through hell at least three times. I have personally delivered death to two of the seven Homunculi. I have now been stripped of what I hold most precious in this life, and it's entirely possible that because of you, by the time we find her, she may be dead. You have started playing a very dangerous game, Sikorsky, because quite literally, at this moment,  _I have nothing left to lose_."

"Chief, don't!" Havoc exclaims. "Put him down!"

"Why?" And now Mustang is snarling, his fingers tightening a fraction on the other man's throat. Sikorsky's eyes bulge. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't torch the little worm on the spot."

"I'll give you one," says Fullmetal hotly. "Because Hawkeye wouldn't want you to do it."

There's a pause, not much of one, but enough to encourage the former alchemist to keep talking. "She didn't let you kill Envy; she wouldn't want you to kill Sikorsky either. Make him talk, but don't kill him. Not for his sake - for hers. And for your own."

It sinks in, and everyone releases the breath they've all been holding as Sikorsky is returned to his feet. Mustang, almost panting, backs away half a step. "All right. Talk."

"I don't know what you expect me to say, after you just  _attacked_ me -"

"Sikorsky," and it's Fullmetal who is growling now, "you tell us what we need to know to find the Colonel, or so help me  _I_  will kill you."

"That's a little hypocritical, don't you think?"

Fullmetal shrugs. "Hawkeye has a say in what  _he_ does. She doesn't have any claims on  _me_."

"And if Ed doesn't kill you,  _we_  will," adds Havoc, in what is easily the most dangerous voice Douglas has ever heard him use. Falman, Fuery and Breda are nodding their agreement.

"I'd volunteer, myself," Douglas adds, "but I'd have to stand in line, and I don't think there'd be anything left of you by the time my turn came around."

* * *

Against this much opposition, Sikorsky finds himself unable to hold out. He's marched down to one of the few holding cells in the building, and all of Mustang's loyal men - past and present - stand around to hear what he has to tell. Even Major Miles and the one they call Scar are on hand for the interrogation; by happenstance, they arrived at the command center during the arrest proceeding, and are keenly interested.

"She's been taken out into the desert," he says crossly. "I don't know exactly where, all right? That wasn't my part. My job was to find a way to get her alone so she could be taken. Not the easiest thing to do, I felt that was work enough."

" _Why_  was she taken?"

Sikorsky clearly does not wish to answer this question, but he senses he has no choice. "The original idea was that we'd make you believe she was dead and it was the work of Ishvalans, so either you or the Fuhrer would reopen the extermination campaign. Then when she turned out to be alive, you and he would look like monsters, he'd be removed from power, and in all probability you'd be shot. But we were changing the plan to kill her and have it look like  _that_  was the work of Ishvalans, to achieve roughly the same end."

Douglas hears Miles growl, very quietly. "And what good would that have done?"

"If we could get Fuhrer Grumman out of power, we could probably get someone in there who's easier for us to control - Edison, for example, who's just languishing in prison. But with Mustang here supporting him, Grumman's very difficult to shake loose." Sikorsky actually smirks. "Fortunately, you share a common weakness."

"And what about the coded message you sent to us?" asks Havoc. "What purpose did you have in bringing us here?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sikorsky..." Mustang growls.

"No, I mean it. It was a complete shock when your men showed up - I certainly didn't arrange for them to be here. All they did was make the plan even more difficult to carry out than it already was."

Everyone seems to mull that over for a bit, and Douglas clears his throat. "We need to formulate a plan of action, General," he says. "The desert is large. It's going to take time and a lot of manpower to search."

"Good luck with that," says Sikorsky. "You do realize that by the time you find her -"

"Shut  _up_ , you filthy maggot!" yells Fullmetal. His hands, Douglas notes, are shaking slightly. "Mustang, can we drag him out into the middle of the desert and leave him there?"

"Don't tempt me." The General's breathing is somewhat labored. "All right. Find whoever you can who's available to go on patrol. We'll split up into teams; we have to move as... as fast as possible. Fuery... did you hear from Armstrong?"

"He and his unit should be getting in this afternoon, Chief."

"Good. That's... that will help."

"Roy..." The speaker is Fullmetal's wife, who has been hovering in the background ever since she located her missing patient. "You should get back to bed."

"Not a chance."

An argument is brewing in her blue eyes. Before it can start, however, Breda interrupts. "Hey... where did Scar go?"


	13. Spite Check

**Spite Check**

_A harmless check given by a player who is about to be checkmated, and which serves no purpose other than to momentarily delay the defeat._

* * *

Sikorsky watches the other man keenly, through half-lidded eyes meant to give the impression of nonchalance. Douglas has apparently proven himself to Mustang with his little stunt in the entrance lobby, and has been left to guard the prisoner while the others make the arrangements for search parties and try to find out why the one called Scar sneaked out in the midst of the interrogation.

"You know it's too late," he says idly.

"You need to stop talking."

"You're not gonna find her. And if you do, so what? She gets a military funeral with full honors, I'm sure that will be very comforting to the grieving widower in his final hours."

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?"

"Come on. You saw his face. That's a dead man walking. It's pathetic - I've heard the stories, he used to be somebody great. I used to think like you do, that he could turn this country around. In the end, he'll just be another figurehead. He's weak."

Douglas doesn't bother to answer, so Sikorsky decides to press his luck a little. At this point, really, what does he have to lose? Less than Mustang, probably. "I've been watching you, Douglas. What's your deal, exactly? You remind me of the ones who came from Central to fall all over themselves for these two. Except they don't see you that way; you're not part of the inner circle."

"I'm not trying to be part of the inner circle."

"You wish you were. I even heard you specifically asked to be sent here to work under them. Why?"

"I have my reasons."

"You have a thing for her?" No response. Sikorsky grins. "You have a thing for  _him_?"

"Don't you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?"

"Sorry, didn't realize it was a touchy subject."

"As long as you're in such a chatty mood, tell me something." Douglas eyes him, and there's something uncomfortably intense in his gaze. "When you were on the phone, you said that even though you 'practically gift-wrapped' the Colonel, they still screwed up. What did that mean?"

"Oh, she's apparently been causing them a mess of trouble." Douglas nods, as though he expected this. "They've had to subdue her three times now. She shot one of the men in the alley, and then later she broke out of the truck that was taking her to the desert. They're incompetent."

"I think she's just more competent than you want to admit."

Sikorsky weighs that for a moment, then shrugs. "It doesn't kill me to admit it. The woman is tough as nails."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Hm?"

"I'm serious." He is, that's evident. "What good will it do you to resurrect a dead conflict? All just to ruin Mustang's career?"

"Here's the thing." Sikorsky laces his fingers and rests his elbows on his knees. "My father served under General Edison. My whole life I expected to enter the military and do the same, only by the time I got to the academy, Mustang and Elric and that whole group had overthrown the situation. Now, I'm not complaining  _too_  much, because from what I hear things possibly would have been a lot worse if they hadn't. But Grumman as Fuhrer isn't something we - the group I'm with - can handle. He doesn't listen to his advisors. The only ones he really seems to trust are Mustang and Major General Armstrong."

"So you thought if you could take down one of them, Grumman would weaken, and you chose General Mustang because..."

"Because his weakness is more obvious. Exactly. Armstrong's cold as ice, I don't know if she even  _has_  a weakness. And I sure as hell wasn't keen on heading up to Briggs to try to find out. Mustang, however, is an idiot over his wife, and since she's also Grumman's biggest weakness she was the most logical target."

Douglas growls, soft. "Being in love does not make anyone an idiot. Not that I'd expect you to understand this, Sikorsky, but love isn't a weakness. It's a strength."

"Speaking from experience, Douglas? I thought you were a single pringle."

"Not speaking from my own experience. So now that you've failed in your objective, what will you do?"

"I guess it's prison for me, unless I can talk you into switching sides." Sikorsky chuckles. "Not likely, is it? You're one of those annoyingly noble types."

"No. Not likely at all."

"I can't figure you out."

"Good."

"You're not getting anything out of this. So why are you here? You really think that what you do makes a difference in the long run?"

Douglas, to his surprise, actually laughs at this. "What I do has already made a difference."

Sikorsky studies him, trying to penetrate the meaning of this cryptic comment. "You haven't done much, other than to catch me. Which, thanks to those morons not staying off of the official lines, would possibly have happened anyway. You did something else?"

No response. Douglas looks away.

"You did." The prisoner's eyes widen. "It was you, wasn't it! That coded message they asked me about - you sent it!"

"I am neither confirming nor denying anything you ask me."

"That's a confirmation all on its own, you know."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"What code did you use?"

"That's not something you need to worry about."

"All right, then, why'd you send it? Come on, I answered all your questions, at least you could answer mine."

He doesn't expect Douglas to relent, so it comes as a surprise that he does. "Fine. You're not as sneaky as you think you are, you know. I may not have known that you were directly involved, but I knew that somebody around here was plotting something. You left a couple of clues."

"Clues like what?"

"The trash. I found a copy of the Mustangs' itinerary for this week in a trash can."

"You go through the trash? That's a little excessive, don't you think?"

"It was all the red pen marks that caught my attention. All the little notations... I understand them now, they were your indications of possible instances where Colonel Mustang might be alone and easier to capture. But at the time they didn't make any sense to me." Douglas turns and meets Sikorsky's eyes, brown on blue. "I just knew that something was probably about to go down. And I knew that whatever it was, they'd have an easier chance of stopping it if they had their old team on hand. So I sent for them."

"Why didn't you just warn them?"

"And say what? 'Sir, ma'am, there's something coming up that seems like it might possibly be a vague threat against one or both of you, so please be careful'? I didn't have a whole lot of proof to back me up, and they might have even thought I was involved. I figured it was better to do it this way, because it put them on their guard. Not enough, unfortunately, but by your own admission it at least made things more difficult for you."

"I should have tried to recruit you for our side," Sikorsky muses. "You're smarter than you look."

"I had a great teacher."

* * *

They don't say anything for a time. Suddenly, without warning, the door bursts open and what Sikorsky can only describe as a mountain of human flesh propels itself into the room. Douglas jumps to his feet, saluting awkwardly. "M-Major Armstrong, I presume!"

"Indeed! You must be Lieutenant Douglas. And  _this_  must be the scoundrel who is responsible for the loss of our beloved Colonel Mustang!" He glowers at Sikorsky, but the bizarre pink sparkles which hover around the hulking figure are so distracting that Sikorsky barely registers the contempt. Armstrong turns back to Douglas. "General Mustang requests your participation in the search parties that are preparing to depart. He has asked me to relieve you as the guardian over this wretched creature."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

As Douglas departs, Armstrong scares Sikorsky out of his mind by stripping off his uniform jacket and shirt. "You worthless worm!  _Now_ , observe the appearance of a _real man_! One who would never prey on a kind and gracious woman to further his own  _political agenda_!" Posturing, he adds, "This combination of excellence and exquisite form is the result of hard work and secrets that have been handed down through the Armstrong line for generations!"

 _Ah,_  thinks Sikorsky, sinking down,  _so there really is a hell, and this is it._


	14. Equalize

**Equalize**

_To create a position where both players have equal chances of winning._

* * *

Scar owes them nothing.

Granted, he did once try to  _kill_  General Mustang, on account of his being a State Alchemist - in particular, he was  _that_  State Alchemist, the one whose name struck more fear into an Ishvalan's heart than almost any other. He had nothing, at first, against the woman except her inexorable connection to this man and her determination to protect him at all costs.

(Later, he found out who  _she_  was, and then it was an entirely different story. Her own reputation is not much less diabolical than his.)

However, they needed to work together to stop the machinations of Father and his Homunculi, and Scar had been forced to acknowledge that they were... not entirely deplorable people. By the time the man had almost snapped and the woman had gone so far as to pull a gun on her beloved superior officer, he'd developed enough grudging respect that he lent his voice to talking Mustang down. Just that much, though; not enough that he was willing to accept Hawkeye's gratitude when she later offered it. He did find it interesting that she seemed to understand that.

Once they were healed, once he was healed, he discovered their determination to put things right in Ishval. He spent some long hours in conversation with Major Miles, whom he respects deeply, and he came to better comprehend how young they had been when they were sent in to annihilate his people. He doesn't think that makes it much better, really, but he has a greater sympathy for what little choice they were given in the matter. When the formal pardon was issued, he saw with his own eyes how uncomfortable they were with it.

"I expected the firing squad, to be honest," Hawkeye had said. "It would have been appropriate."

They're a strange pair, Scar thinks. They despise themselves and idolize each other. She would throw herself on a bomb to buy him an extra five seconds to escape from a situation. He would set himself on fire before he'd allow anything to happen to her. His vantage point under the Fifth Laboratory had allowed him to see the torment in Mustang's face as Hawkeye lay dying, to see how close he came to giving up and giving in and endangering the whole world to save one woman.

He has seen just in the last two days how her absence has affected the General. And while it would be an exaggeration to say that he  _likes_  them, he can acknowledge that he no longer hates them. He's even willing to admit, privately, that he thinks Mustang might just be able to make the country whole again, if given the chance. But he'll never get that chance alone; he might not even live that long, with his mind ravaged by fever and grief. So Scar has been working as hard as anyone else to find her.

He desires no harm to befall her. This is the extent of his attachment to the woman - a sort of benign indifference. Somehow, he thinks she would understand this, if she knew. She seems to understand many things.

* * *

When the traitor soldier reveals the plan to resurrect the war in Ishval, Scar is incensed. He and his compatriots would sacrifice even more innocent lives in a machination designed to play on the lingering guilt of the Amestrian citizens. The time for talking has passed, in Scar's opinion, and as quietly as he can he slips from the room. Let the others continue their interrogation; he knows what he needs to know, which is that Colonel Mustang is somewhere in the desert.

As one of Mustang's men correctly points out, the desert is vast and they have no real idea of where she might be found. But Scar's brother left answers in his notebooks, answers that Scar has not fully deciphered yet, and the clue to her location may be hidden within his writings.

He returns to his small residence, not far from Ishval Command, and pulls out the priceless books in which his brother so carefully inscribed the knowledge he wanted to share with the world. The secret must lie within the  _chi_ , and the connection that all life has to the pulse of the world. If he can use alkahestry to tap into the  _chi_  that is specific to Colonel Mustang, he can follow the dragon lines that will lead to her.

For a long time he reads, not moving save to turn pages. His gaze traces over the shapes of the letters, drinking in their essence.  _Brother, my brother, speak to me. These words are all that remain of you, these words and this arm. Help me use them both for the greater good. Someone else has deconstructed - help me to reconstruct. Teach me what I need to know._

The winter sunbeams that stretch through the window grow longer. Some part of his mind can almost feel her life stretching thin. Still he reads, still he puzzles out the meaning. At long last, he thinks he knows what to do.

In any case, he's going to try.

With the notebook in hand, Scar makes his way silently to the edge of the desert. He keeps to shadows, wanting to be spotted by no one - not even Miles, not until he has something to offer. He kneels and draws a transmutation circle in the sand, smoothing over his work many times and redrawing it until it's just right. Still on his knees, he presses his palms into the soft sand.

It is like placing his hands on the heart of the world.

The  _chi_  of a thousand life forms is laid open to him like a book. For a moment he despairs, not having the slightest notion of how to pick out the one he seeks. He glances at the notebook pages, reminds himself of what he's read, and starts to sift through the threads. Hers is there, and once he finds it he can block out the others.

Had an arrow been drawn in the sand, the way to find her could not be clearer. He is sorry, honestly sorry, that he did not think to try this sooner. He might have spared everyone at least a few hours of suffering. But the city in which Ishval Command is situated is intensely clogged with bodies, overflowing with  _chi_. It would have been even more difficult to search out her essence there, perhaps impossible, and that's if the idea had crossed his mind earlier.

As Scar knows all too well, there is nothing to be gained by looking back on what you did or didn't do. So he picks up his brother's notes and stands, and returns to Ishval Command.

* * *

"I can lead you to her."

Scar supposes he can't blame Mustang and his men for the bewildered stares that answer this statement. He regards them calmly.

"How do you figure?" asks the short redheaded man.

He holds up the notebook. "When the traitor mentioned the desert, it reminded me of something in my brother's notes," he explains. "I was able to perform an alkahestry ritual that connected me to Colonel Mustang's  _chi_. Her life force," he clarifies, realizing that only Mustang and Elric know what he's referencing. "I may need to perform it a few more times on the way, to be sure that I have the direction right and that she isn't being moved, but we can find her."

Silence reigns for a moment. Then the tall one, with the cigarette poking out of his mouth, widens his eyes. "If you connected to her life force," he says, "that means she's definitely alive!"

"Yes." Scar almost smiles. There's something somehow very amusing about that reaction.

"She's alive," Mustang repeats slowly, softly. The very confirmation of this fact seems to put strength back into his ill and weary limbs. He has traded his hospital garments for regular clothes, and it's possible that he's even dragged a comb through his unruly hair sometime in the past several hours.

"I can't guarantee more than that," Scar warns him, not entirely without sympathy. "She's likely to be injured, probably seriously."

"But she's alive. It's enough." Mustang blinks, and for an instant, his emotions are exposed. He blinks again, and they're gone. "Let's not waste any more time. Are the trucks done being converted?"

"Nearly," reports another soldier.

"Converted?"

"Vehicles with wheels don't work too well in the desert - sand gets into the gears after a while and makes them break down," explains the short, bespectacled soldier. "So we've taken belts, kind of like the ones that make tanks move, and converted the trucks so that they'll roll on top of the sand." He scratches his head, looking embarrassed. "I'm not sure how to describe it any better than that, but it'll be a lot faster than hitching up a bunch of camels."

Scar exchanges glances with Major Miles, who just shrugs and smiles slightly. "I see," he says. "I wondered why you hadn't left already. Now it makes sense."

"All right. I'll be in the lead truck; Scar, since you're our navigator, I'd like you to ride with me. Miles too, and Fullmetal, I guess you'd better sit where I can keep an eye on you. Falman, Fuery, Havoc and Breda, you take the second truck. Ross, Brosh, Catalina, Douglas, you're third." Mustang may still be sick, but he's speaking with a force and authority that no one has heard from him in days. "Mason - you, Dorset, and Webber stay here, and report to Major Armstrong in my absence. Keep Mrs. Elric company. If anyone calls,  _especially_  the Fuhrer, do not give out any intelligence about where we've gone. Let's go." He whistles, and the little black dog who is normally his wife's shadow falls in step behind him.

As they climb into the lead vehicle, Mustang catches and holds Scar's gaze. "I know you won't accept my thanks," he says quietly, sincerely, "but you have them all the same. You've probably saved both our lives."

Scar considers the matter. He refused Hawkeye's gratitude on the Promised Day, but now... it is fitting. It is, perhaps, part of the healing.

"I will accept your thanks," he says finally, "and you are welcome."


	15. Caïssa

**Caïssa**

_The goddess of chess, occasionally invoked to indicate luck or good fortune._

* * *

Riza's mouth is dry and tastes of dust.

This is...going badly, she is forced to admit.

The escape attempt from the truck had been unsuccessful, though not for lack of trying. When they'd opened the back door, clearly expecting her to still be unconscious, she'd been ready. Supporting herself with the rope still tied to the interior roof, she'd swung forward like a ballast, planting her feet squarely in the chest of the first person she saw and knocking him down. She'd dropped into a controlled fall and barrel-rolled, but there had been more of them than she was prepared to deal with and they'd subdued her.

They haven't dared another head injury, at least. In fact, she's not sure exactly  _how_  they knocked her out this time, but her head doesn't ache any more than it had previously so she is assuming there was no third blow. Good thing too; her scalp is already sticky with dried blood, and she's afraid of what additional strikes might start to do to her brain.

"Hello there," says a voice now. "I see you're awake." The voice is wholly unfamiliar, and strange - the Rs are rolled in a very odd way, as though the speaker is saying the word "are."

"Who are you?" she rasps. The dust is coating her throat. "What do you want with me?"

"I must apologize, Lady Mustang... everything you've endured up to this point hasn't been explained. Nor is it your fault," continues the stranger.  _Lady Mustang?_  That was peculiar - not unpleasant, but peculiar. "You are simply a means to an end."

"Not big on... flattery, are you?"

He chortles. "Spirited to the very end. Unfortunately, sweet lady, this is the end. For you."

"I'm sorry... to disappoint you," she replies, more bravely than she really feels, "but I... am going to survive. I'm under orders... not to die."

"Yes, I've heard that said." There is almost an audible smile in the words. She still can't see the speaker, both because he seems to be keeping to the shadows and because her vision is somewhat blurred. "You are a dutiful soldier and a dutiful wife, and so very, very cherished."

"Tell me... what's happening."

"Your friends and your husband are hard at work to find you. Their efforts are quite admirable, in fact. I almost hate to disappoint them."

"Why did... you... take me?"

"That in particular, yes. You've a right to know, I suppose. You will be the beautiful and tragic victim of an Ishvalan uprising," he explains. "Your noble husband and your powerful grandfather will be incensed and demand to resume the destruction."

Riza's vision is starting to clear, and although she's fighting a strange kind of nausea, she manages to sit up. "That will never... happen. Roy... Roy wouldn't..."

"He will. I'm sure he will."

"You don't know him..."

"Your strength is considerable," he acknowledges, "if you're able to function even after all this. I'll humor you. Why wouldn't he?"

"My... husband... made a vow... never again..."

"Do you really think he cares more for that vow than for you? Your marriage must not be everything I've heard it is."

She actually smirks. "He knows I'd... haunt him... if he did any...thing... so stupid..."

"What an odd pair you are."

"Yes." She'll admit that. They  _are_  an odd pair, at least in some respects.

"No children?"

"Not yet."

"Not ever, I'm afraid. More's the pity; nothing to console him in his grief but your dear little dog. My contact at the command center tells me he won't let the thing out of his sight... especially now that he's confined to the hospital level."

"...what!"

"Oh, yes, you wouldn't know. Your dear husband collapsed, Lady Mustang."

"No..."

"Oh, yes. Burning up with fever, unable to find his strength without you there. They don't know if he'll survive."

Riza's eyes start to swim, and she blinks furiously.  _Roy, you idiot, you have to live!_

"He will," she says defiantly.

"If it makes you feel better to believe that he'll go on without you, I won't take that away from you. Tell me, Lady Mustang, do you know where you are?"

"No..."

"Take a  _good_  look, if you can."

She rubs her eyes and stares around glassily. It's not overly familiar, but there is something about the place... it's in the desert, certainly, and the crumbled half-walls and broken stairs and piles of rubble suggest that it was part of the area they occupied during the war. "War..."

"That's right, Lady of the Hawk's Eyes. You remember now."

What she remembers, she doesn't voice. But she does recognize it now.

* * *

_"Another day in hell."_

_It would be difficult to say which of them had spoken, since the thought sprang up in nearly every soldier's mind. Riza is fairly certain it was Roy - Major Mustang, that is - but she can't be sure. She sits down with him and Hughes, not speaking. She's so tense and torn apart inside that she wants to scream, so she keeps silent rather than risking it. The desert around them is growing dark._

_"I got a letter from Gracia," Hughes says brightly. He's kind of adorable in his lovesickness, although there are days when Riza is deeply jealous of the fact that he's allowed to_ _**show** _ _his feelings. Now is one of them, but she swallows the bitterness and offers him a smile._

_"How is she?"_

_"Doing well, missing me terribly."_

_Riza nods, and lapses back into silence. Roy hasn't spoken, and in truth, he looks deeply annoyed, staring at the ground. She wonders if they're on the same page. They probably are._

_Hughes isn't stupid, fortunately. "You two," he says, and the sappy tone has vanished; his eyes are hidden behind the shine of his glasses, but his mouth curves a bit wickedly. "Get out of here."_

_"What?"_

_"Go. Both of you. I'll cover for you."_

_"Go...?"_

_Hughes shakes his head. "Roy, you of all people are not that thick._ _**Go** _ _."_

_And Riza understands his meaning, and she looks at Roy with a mixture of hope and dread. And it's not ten minutes later that they're alone, and his mouth is on hers, and later they will both be grateful to have such a good friend as Maes Hughes but right now they're not thinking about much._

_Before they return to the encampment, while they're still getting their breath back, he points at a little patch of decimated wall and snaps his fingers. The fire curls through the stone, hotter than fire has any right to be, and when it fades there's a curlicue of an impression there, a blackened image. It takes Riza a moment to figure out what the imprint means._

_Two letter Rs, back to back._

* * *

If she looks hard enough, had she the wit and the clear vision to do so, Riza wonders if that image would still be here. Because  _here_  is that ruined building where he left it.

Ironic, that the one place where she'd actually felt alive during the war is the place where she's been brought to die.

"Why here?" she wants to know.

"Symbolism. You perched here so often, sniping Ishvalans... it would be a very symbolic place for them to kill you." She releases the breath she's been holding; he doesn't know its other significance, then. "It will reinforce the idea that they are responsible."

"I have...Ishvalan...allies," she says, hesitating to name Miles and Scar as friends. "The lie will... not be...believed as... easily... as you think."

"They will believe it. We will see to that." And she doesn't know who  _we_  are, or how they plan to see to it, but she's woozy enough and distressed enough that she's afraid anyway.

"Why not... kill me before... this?"

"Our original intentions were not to kill you at all, Lady Mustang."

"...what?"

"It was to be trickery. Let them believe you're dead, then produce you alive and well after the war is reignited. But our man on the inside says they're getting too close. They've called in friends from all over the country, now, and we can't contend with that kind of manpower."

Riza is, in spite of her discomfort, astonished - and deeply touched. More than anything, she's relieved, because Roy has plenty of backup.  _They'll take care of him...oh, men, I'm glad you were here._  "So now you... have to... kill me instead, because... you're too cowardly to face... my friends?"

"I'm afraid so."

And at last he emerges from the shadows, and she sees the shock of white hair. "Are... _you_... Ishvalan?"

"No. Just aging gracefully," he replies with a mocking bow. He turns to what remains of a doorway and calls, "Come in here."

A burly man - Riza recognizes him, dimly, as being one of those who subdued her after her aborted escape from the truck - enters with slow, shuffling steps. "S'loaded," he grunts.

"Good." Turning back to Riza, the white-haired man says, "This is where we say goodbye, I'm afraid."

Riza looks around, judging where she might escape; there are stairs leading up to the dilapidated second floor, but where she could go from there is limited to straight down. Her strange captor hands a gun to the burly man and saunters out of the crumbled room, calm and unconcerned.

She's got one chance, only one. She has to knock him off balance before he can aim and shoot. So before she can think about it too much, she hurtles forward, throwing all her weight into a lunge for his hips. They topple together, crashing to the floor, and it turns into the most awkward wrestling match of her life.

"You like it rough, huh?" he growls, and she feels sick. "Hey, if that's the way you wanna play... I've got no problem with that!" He's at least twice her size and has no difficulty flipping her onto her back, pinning her to the floor. The gun is still there, but he's ignoring it for the moment, having gotten other ideas.

_Damn._

She brings her knee up sharply, hitting him in sensitive locations, and he yelps. "Bitch!"

"Second time... been called that... by one of you," she says hotly. "What can I say... I'm a dog of the military."

She sees the gun coming from the corner of her eye, and frantically she makes a grab for his thick wrist, trying to slam his hand into the ground to make him drop it. They continue to scuffle for dominance, the gun growing slippery in sweaty hands.

"Just  _die_  already!" he rages.

"You first!"

"Damn you to hell!"

The gun goes off, the barrel smoking faintly in the desert air.


	16. Good Bishop

**Good Bishop**

_A bishop which has high mobility._

* * *

Vato Falman has seen some very bad situations in his life. The whole of the Promised Day would rank high on that list, especially the part where he faced down Fuhrer King Bradley (and yes, he will openly admit to having cried while he did, but people tend to be more impressed by the fact that he didn't run away). His days of frustration and danger as guardian to Barry the Chopper were likewise pretty bad, although at least the guy had been a halfway decent chess opponent. And there was the whole matter of Central City being invaded during the Xingese welcoming parade; that was dangerous and unnerving, but it had ended well.

The current scenario is no slouch in the horrible department. It's going to take him a while to forget the fear that had clenched in his midsection when he received the call from Fuery detailing the events in Ishval. General Armstrong had initially been reluctant to grant him unplanned leave, but he'd confessed the details to her; he remembered her long-ago remark that she had met the former Riza Hawkeye in training and how unfortunate it would be to lose her, and he had counted on her opinion not having changed in spite of the Colonel's "unenviable state of marriage." (Not that General Armstrong thinks so badly of marriage itself, mind. She just thinks Ladyhawk's insane for having accepted Mustang.) So she had given her consent, and even went so far as to say that if the situation turned out to be worse than they thought, he should send word.

"The shield of Briggs will come to the aid of the sword of Ishval, if need be."

He thinks about that as the truck-tanks speed along the desert surface. He wonders if he should have sent word before they left. It's safe to say that the situation is most assuredly worse than he thought it was. Ladyhawk's alive, but that's all they have to go on right now, and - it hurts him to even  _think_  this - that could change before they find her. And if what Sikorsky said is true, this is a widespread plot and...

Maybe...

"Fuery."

"What?"

"Does this conveyance have any form of communications equipment? Strong enough to send a message to Briggs?"

"Picking a bit of an odd time to call the missus, aren't you, Falman?" Havoc interjects from the driver's seat.

"That's not who I want to call."

"It's not the best," Fuery muses, inspecting what the truck has in the way of such things, "but I might be able to jury-rig it. Let me see what I can do."

Though no one voices it, they're all sort of grateful that Falman has created this distraction. He can tell by the way they keep talking about it. It gives them something immediate to distract themselves, to keep themselves from wondering what they're going to find when the vehicles pull to a stop.

"So you want to call who?"

"Major General Armstrong."

"You couldn't just send a postcard?"

"I don't think that would suffice for the purpose, no." Falman smiles briefly.

"Do you think they even make postcards for such an occasion?"

"Well, there's always 'Wish you were here.' We could just extend it to 'Wish you were here to ram your sword down someone's throat.'"

"It would save you the trouble of taking back a souvenir for her. She could just come and pick one out herself."

"Did you really let her be little Vanessa's godmother, Falman?"

"You say 'let her' like we had much of a choice in the matter. Would  _you_  have said no?"

"Point taken."

"Does your wife know that you named your kid after your old codename?"

"It was her idea, actually."

"You really have to bring her down to meet us all sometime."

"I'm not sure I want to scare her like that."

"Hello? Hello, to whom am I speaking, please? This is Master Sergeant Kain Fuery, over."

* * *

They continue driving for what feels like forever, though it's truthfully only maybe an hour or two. Falman loses track. The trucks roll slowly to a halt, a little way from a large cluster of ruined buildings. They exit and look around warily, shivering inside their white cloaks; the winter afternoon sun is thin and does little to warm them.

"Where are we?" asks Ross.

The General is frowning. "This is - this  _was_  - a place where we were stationed during the war, for a few days." He looks as though he wants to ask Scar if he's sure that they're in the right place, but is unwilling to possibly insult him by doing so. "Why would they bring her here?"

"Roy Mustang."

They turn, several guns lifting, to view the speaker. The man is tall and wiry, with a shock of white hair not entirely unlike Scar's. His accent is harsh and pronounced; his lips curl as he speaks the Chief's name,  _Arroy Moostangy._  "Is that Aerugonian?" Falman murmurs to Fuery.

"Similar, but not proper," Fuery mutters back. "Like the accent mutated because he relocated to different places, or something. It's weird."

"Who are you?" Mustang demands of the stranger.

"My name is unimportant. You have impressed me deeply, Flame Alchemist. I have to admit that I did not think you would really find me - or the strength to pursue me." He chuckles. "Then again, it is not me you're pursuing, is it?"

"Where is she?"

As if on cue, they hear a gunshot, and to a man the group visibly flinches. The stranger nods, an answer to the question no one asked.

"You stand before her tomb. I will speak plainly, Roy Mustang. I am sorry it came to this. A valiant warrior, your lady. Her involvement was... unfortunate. Necessary, but unfortunate."

"If she  _is_  dead, you've just signed your own death warrant." Mustang is doing a remarkable job of not shaking; Falman doubts he could be so composed. "You didn't really expect us to let you live?"

"Actually, I expect you to not only let me live, but to let me leave." The stranger gestures to a waiting vehicle, some yards away.

"I don't think so."

"Allow me to explain?"

"Talk fast."

He smiles. "You see, I am expected to meet with my men in..." He pulls out a watch and consults it. "...exactly four hours. If I do not attend that meeting, they have orders to assume that I am dead and to carry out our alternate plan."

"Which is what?"

"To launch a full-scale offensive on Ishval Command, and kill everyone inside."

Falman hears Fullmetal suck in a breath, and when he glances at the younger man, he sees that the blood has drained out of his face. " _Winry_..."

Mustang does not visibly pale; in a way, he seems to grow a little larger as he stares down his opponent. "What do you really hope to gain? This is easily the most convaluted plan I've ever encountered."

"Chaos begets chaos, Roy Mustang. Ishval is your most unsettled region; it is the perfect place to start. We are the wind that will fan the flames of upheaval throughout Amestris and leave it open to the next strike." The stranger smiles.

"That's not what Sikorsky said," Douglas objects.

"Ah, did you capture Sikorsky? I knew you would before very long. He has been useful in his way but his position on the inside made him too vulnerable. I made sure he knew very little that he could be forced to tell you." The strange man's eyes harden. "The longer you keep me standing here, Roy Mustang, the more likely it is that I will miss my meeting. The choice is yours. Will you kill me to avenge your wife, or will you let me go and spare those in Ishval Command?"

Silence reigns in the desert. Finally, the General speaks.

"Stand down, men." They all exchange glances, but obediently lower their weapons, knowing what that order must be costing him.

"You are a man of principle. I am impressed again." Their antagonist smiles. "A parting gift?" He points to one of the buildings, less dilapidated than most. "She is in there - along with her executioner. Do with him as you will."

"You throw away the lives of your men. That's cold."

"They have a terrible habit of outliving their usefulness. Do yourselves a favor... do not follow me. Goodbye, Roy Mustang, until we meet again."

He turns and walks to the waiting vehicle. Mustang does not take his eyes off of him as he drives off.

"I could take him out," Havoc offers. He's not the sniper that Ladyhawk is but he's damn good.

"No."

There's a certain finality to the word, and no one dares to speak. The vehicle disappears from view.

"We've got to get back to Ishval Command," Fullmetal says. He looks like he's trying not to be panicked. "I don't trust him."

"Neither do I. Get back in the trucks," says Mustang. He still does not move.

"...Chief?"

"Give me five minutes." He starts walking to the building which he has been told contains the body of their lost queen. "And  _don't follow me._ "

* * *

Nobody entirely knows what to do.

To break the silence somewhat, Falman tells the others that he has made contact with Briggs. "Major General Armstrong offered her support if things became worse than we believed," he says. "She and some of the Bears are going to make their way to Ishval to aid us."

"That's comforting," says Brosh. "I just hope they can get here in  _time_. Do you think that guy - whoever he is - will attack the command center anyway?"

"There's no telling," Breda says grimly.

"What's  _keeping_  him?" Havoc wonders, glancing at the building.

An explosion answers the question, sending everyone diving to the ground. They are all by the trucks, which are a tolerably safe distance from the combustion, but the heat still makes their eyes water as they slowly lift their heads and stare. The building into which their beloved General disappeared is the one which seems to be the origin point of the blast, and the fire is slowly spreading throughout the ruins.

"Did he really-!"

"He can't be-!"

"Oh,  _God_..."

Falman looks around at everyone in disbelief. Catalina has tears rolling down her face, unchecked. Havoc can't get up past his knees. Ross covers her mouth with both hands. Fullmetal, frustrated, punches the sand. "That  _idiot_..."

Fuery's close to weeping, but he otherwise remains unusually calm. "We... we knew he might... do something like this," he says thickly. "It was... his choice."

"It was a  _stupid_  choice!" Fullmetal shouts.

"But it was his." Douglas, evidently in shock, forces himself to stand. "We should... get back to Command. Just in case..."

No one wants to go. Breda awkwardly pulls Havoc to his feet, and the taller man almost hangs on his friend for support. Miles is silent, his head bowed. Scar tilts his head back to look at the sky.

"God... two souls have come to you. Receive them in your mercy," he intones quietly. "Forgive them... and grant those who loved them the courage to carry on."

"Amen." Falman doesn't know who said it. It probably doesn't matter.

* * *

Slowly, very slowly, they dust themselves off and start to get back into the trucks. It doesn't seem possible. Hard enough to face this chess game without the queen, but now they've been left without the king, and what use are pawns and bishops and knights and rooks on their own?

Falman settles into the passenger seat of the second truck. Breda is driving it this time; Havoc is in the back with Fuery. He drove the truck on the way here, but he's fallen so far into his grief that he's barely aware of his surroundings just now. Fuery is quiet, his face buried in his knees, trying to muffle his crying.

Breda watches the lead vehicle, now being driven by Miles, and waits for the signal to pull out.

"This can't be real."

"How are we going to break this to the Fuhrer?"

"I don't know... and Mustang's mother, too, how do we tell her?"

"At least they're together, I guess. It's what they'd have wanted..."

The lead truck starts, so Breda starts theirs too. Before he can shift out of park, however, the vehicle behind them suddenly blares its horn, loudly and repeatedly.

"The hell's with Douglas?"

Falman rolls down his window and leans out to look back; being taller than Breda, he can get a better view. What he sees almost makes him fall. "Everyone out," he says hoarsely.

"What?"

"Get out of the truck!"

Bewildered, the members of Team Mustang tumble out, feeling weighted down by their grief but dragging themselves to the back of the convoy. Fullmetal, Scar and Miles join them there, equally puzzled as to the reason for the frantic honking. "What is it?"

"Look..."

Silhouetted against the burning building, a blurry black shape is moving. It isn't traveling very fast, but it is distinctly drawing closer.

"You don't suppose...?"

"Do we dare hope?"

They stay where they are, rooted to the spot by shock and a reluctance to trust their own eyes. The figure gets closer, and more distinct, though the waves of heat rippling through the air continue to make it blurry. It's an oddly shaped thing.

" _General?_ " Douglas shouts in astonishment. "Is that you?"

They can't hear an answer, but Fullmetal, at least, gets over his stupor and starts moving to meet the figure. And as he does, the peculiar blurry shape grows a bit sharper, and Falman realizes just why it's so strange. It's lopsided, and limping, and in a lot of pain... but it's unmistakable, now, what's giving it such asymmetry.

Beside him, Havoc still stares, and his devastated expression morphs into one of exultation.

" _Ladyhawk!_ "


	17. Breakthrough

**Breakthrough**

_Destruction of a seemingly strong defense, often by means of a sacrifice._

* * *

That he will enter the building where his wife's body lies is without question.

That he will ever come out again... well, that part is open to debate.

Roy knows, as he watches his unfamiliar opponent walk away, that he has very possibly been checkmated. He is surrounded by his loyal pieces, but he was duped into sacrificing his dearest subordinate, his compass, his beloved. He doesn't even have the energy to be angry.

"I could take him out," Havoc offers.

"No." He'd like nothing better. But he has to think of the innocents in the command building; Winry Elric alone is enough reason to exercise self-control. He can feel them staring at him as he starts walking forward, and he knows how deep their loyalty runs. " _Don't follow me_ ," he growls. He's very glad that he left Black Hayate in the truck. Fuery will look after him, if Roy doesn't come back.

Just inside what passes for the door, he pauses. The smell of gunpowder is prevalent, following the recent shot. "I know you're here," he says loudly. "Show yourself or I will torch this building to the ground and burn you alive."

He strains his ears, but he doesn't hear anything. Perhaps the killer has already fled through another exit. It's not as though there aren't enough holes in the walls.

His eyes adjust to the odd dimness, and he starts searching the rubble. He wants to hold her one more time, if nothing else. But it's not Riza's body that he finds.

The man is burly and thick-set, with beady eyes that gaze at Roy without seeing him. Death has frozen a startled expression on his features. Roy blinks at him in confusion, and wonders if he dares to have hope. Is it possible...?

And then he hears it. There's movement above him, on the second floor. He sees the worn staircase and makes his way slowly to them, creaking upwards. He doesn't want to move too quickly, because he doesn't know what he's about to find. Perhaps there is more than one thug on the premises, and his first discovery is only delaying the inevitable.

There's a scuffling sound, like shoes scraping on the stone floor. "I'm armed," rasps a voice. It sounds choked and despondent.

"I'm not," he replies, hoping that saying so isn't a mistake.

Silence. He stops moving, and waits, halfway up the stairs. When the other person speaks after a moment, it's a tiny, dazed, disbelieving sound.

"...Roy?"

"Riza?"

" _Roy?_ "

He half runs, half trips up the rest of the stairs. "Where are you?"

"Here..." She's hidden herself behind a partial wall, and as he approaches, she uses it to force herself to her feet. She's shivering and covered in dust and blood; her hair is matted and tangled; there's a welt on her cheek and a gash on her arm. She looks exhausted, and pale, and perhaps a shade thinner than he remembers.

She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

She stumbles, and he catches her and they don't do anything for a moment except cling to each other. "Roy... I thought... oh, Roy, you're burning up, why are you out of bed?" That's his Riza, he thinks, more worried about him than about herself.

"I missed you," he croaks. "I missed you so much." Her lips are cracked and swollen; as much as he wants to kiss her, he's afraid he'll cause her more pain if he does. He pulls off his white cloak and wraps it around her shivering form, then hooks an arm under her knees and carries her downstairs. "We're getting out of here."

"I killed him," she mumbles. "The one... who was supposed to kill me... we fought for the gun..."

"Brave girl," he murmurs against her hair. "Don't talk. Just rest."

He carries her, not out the entrance he used but a second one leading out the back. He's not sure why he does it, really; he knows the others are desperate to see that she's alive. But he wants to torch the place, wants it to burn to the ground. A purifying ritual, of sorts. It doesn't really make sense, he supposes, except that if his unnamed enemy is watching from a distance (and he may well be), it might trick him into thinking Roy has committed suicide. He already believes Riza is dead, in any case, and Roy is looking forward to his disappointment.

He settles Riza gently at a safe distance from the building. The clapping alchemy did not leave him once his vision was restored, and within a moment, the inferno is raging. "Can you walk, Riza?"

"My leg hurts... think my knee is twisted... I'm sorry, Roy."

"Shh." He scoops her up again, his left arm supporting her around her waist. He loops her right arm over his shoulders, holding her hand, and they start to lumber around the burning buildings. "We'll have to go... quickly," he says, slightly breathless. "The others will... be worried."

"Maybe... we should have... used the front door," she manages, with a trace of humor.

"Mm. Probably."

"I missed you too."

"Don't ever leave me again."

"I'll do my best."

"That's an order, Colonel."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

" _Ladyhawk!_ "

There is no mistaking Havoc's cry of joy. But Fullmetal is the one who runs to assist Roy with his precious burden, gently catching her left arm and putting it across his shoulders. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Hawkeye," he says fondly.

"Edward? What're you...?"

"And you!" He glares at Roy. "Bastard. We thought you offed yourself."

"I'm touched that you care, Fullmetal."

"In your dreams."

Riza is staring at the collection of people who have come to rescue her. "How...?"

"Fuery sent out an S.O.S.," says Maria Ross, smiling. "We all wanted to help."

"I don't know what to say," Riza says softly, visibly moved. "'Thank you' seems too weak."

They settle her in the back of the lead truck, where Black Hayate almost howls his relief at being reunited with his mistress. Roy sits there, cradling her in his arms to cushion her against shocks, and he does what he can to give her water and attend her injuries. She's swathed in blankets, her head against his chest.

"You should be in bed," she says. "That... whoever he was... told me you collapsed."

"You shouldn't talk, your throat is sore."

"Did you?"

"...sort of."

"Roy..."

"Shh. I had to come. You would have, if it were me," he adds, knowing that she can't refute this. "It was Scar who helped us find you - he used alkahestry to track your life force." Scar is sitting up front with Miles, where she can't address him without raising her voice, but he knows she will try to find a way to thank him later.

"If it's any consolation, Hawkeye," says Fullmetal, "he  _was_  in bed for a day or so. Winry insisted on coming with me from Resembool, and she helped take care of him." He looks anxious; he wants to get back to the command center and make sure it's still standing. Roy understands entirely too well.

"Thank you for that," she whispers. "Roy..."

"Go to sleep." He brushes the hair back from her face. "You're safe now. Rest."

She does, finally, lulled by the rhythm of the truck and his heartbeat just below her ear. Hayate curls up next to Roy's thigh, tucking his nose into Riza's hand, and falls asleep likewise.

* * *

Ishval Command is in one piece, for which they all breathe a sigh of gratitude. Fullmetal bounds out of the truck and races inside, while Roy gently rouses his sleeping wife and Havoc comes to offer assistance in getting her to the hospital level. "You should rest too, Chief," he adds.

"Don't start with me, Havoc." He smiles, however; there's no venom in the rebuke.

The Elrics return, Winry looking like she might cry at the sight of Riza, drowsy and injured but definitely alive. They're followed by Armstrong, who leaves no one in doubt about the state of  _his_  emotions as he bursts into tears.

"Please tell me his shirt is still on," Riza mumbles, eyes closed.

"So far."

They get her to the infirmary. Dr. Marcoh has been called in their absence, Roy's men having hoped he was bringing back a patient, and he has been waiting for their arrival. He examines Riza gently, carefully, and with obvious relief.

"She's definitely dehydrated, exhausted, sun- and windburned, and she's suffered exposure," he reports. "That's in addition to the obvious cuts, and she suffered at least one head injury, probably when she was subdued. Her knee is sprained, but not broken. She needs bed rest for a few days, and I've got her started on intravenous fluids." He levels a stern gaze at Roy. "We put a second bed next to hers. I suggest you go occupy it until you get over your illness."

"All right." Roy is not putting up a fight, which he supposes may come as a surprise to his friends, and he goes to change back into the hospital-issue garments he had cast off for the rescue mission. Riza is already asleep, he notes as he gets into the bed, and the two beds are close enough that he can reach across the empty space between and curl his fingers around hers.

As he drifts off, he hears Marcoh remark to Havoc and Breda that "He'll be all right now, I think. He's got the medicine he needed most."


	18. Alekhine's Gun

**Alekhine's Gun**

_A formation in which a queen backs up two rooks on the same file._

* * *

Riza is not conscious when Fuery contacts Major General Armstrong so that Falman can give her an update on the situation, relieved that she has not yet left Briggs. She is also not conscious when they decide, reluctantly, to inform Fuhrer Grumman about what's been happening in Ishval. In point of fact, she sleeps continuously for close to thirty hours.

Once she does wake, the men form a semicircle around her and Roy's beds in order to give them an update on everything. Her throat still hurts, but not as much as it did, and Roy's condition has improved dramatically now that he's not battling the stress of finding her.

"Major General Armstrong is still going to send a contingent of Briggs soldiers here to help fortify Ishval Command," Falman reports, "but she herself is traveling to Central to confer with the Fuhrer. You are both requested to join them there as soon as you're well enough to travel."

"And by 'requested,' I suppose you mean 'ordered.'"

"He's your grandfather, ma'am, he wasn't couching it in quite those terms. But...yes."

"It's just as well. This situation is obviously much more widespread than we realized," says Roy. "It's probably not wrong to guess that the whole of Amestris could be in danger, especially given what that bastard said to me in the desert about 'the wind that will fan the flames.' At least this time it's  _probably_ a human threat."

"We hope so," says Havoc.

"What about Sikorsky?"

"Lieutenants Ross and Brosh and I are going to personally escort him to Central," says Major Armstrong. "He faces charges of treason; I believe he intends to confess in exchange for a lighter sentence. We'll be leaving tomorrow."

"We told him what that white-haired guy in the desert said," adds Ross. "He...didn't take it well. Looks like the guy was telling the truth, and Sikorsky only knew as much as he needed to know to be useful."

"Did he tell you anything other than what we already know?"

"Just that he only knows the white-haired man as Acheron."

"Acheron." Roy rolls the name over his tongue. "It doesn't ring a bell, but it might be of use to us."

Breda, Falman, Fuery and Havoc will, of course, be returning to Central with the king and queen, as will Becky. Edward and Winry are still arguing about the matter; he wants her to return to the comparitive safety of Resembool while he goes to Central, and she wants to go with him. Marcoh finally throws them out of the infirmary to finish their fight elsewhere. Riza wonders if Winry's wrench is in the vicinity, as that may have some effect on the outcome.

"Major Miles," says Roy, "I'd like you to take the helm of Ishval Command while we're in Central. I want a thoroughly trustworthy officer overseeing matters here, and I think you'd do an admirable job."

"Thank you, General." The Ishvalan's eyes flash with pleasure at the compliment.

"Scar?" Riza says softly. The warrior priest is standing quietly at the back of the group.

"Yes?"

"I know what you did...to help us. Thank you."

He nods, his expression inscrutable. "You're welcome."

* * *

Riza wants to bathe, and wash the dried blood from her hair. She's given permission to do so, but only with assistance, and Becky volunteers. Hayate trots after them, unwilling to let his mistress out of his sight after the lengthy separation.

"I want to know everything that happened while I was gone," she tells Becky when they're alone. "What happened to you, how Roy got sick...don't spare the details."

To her credit, Becky doesn't. For more than half an hour, as she helps Riza clean up from her days of misadventure, she talks almost nonstop. What befell her when she was taken. How Roy had fallen ill and gotten worse when Riza's dog tags were found. The call for allies. The discovery of Sikorsky's duplicity. Scar's alkahestry ritual. Roy's faceoff with Acheron. She combs Riza's hair for her, careful not to scrape her bruised scalp, then leaves the room.

Returning, she grins. "Sergeant Mason took me back to your place while you were sleeping, to get some more dog food for Hayate, and I brought a couple other things while I was at it. I thought this might be more comfortable for you than the hospital gown."

"Oh,  _thank_  you." Riza eagerly, though gingerly, dons the pale blue fleece pajamas and thick wool socks. "That feels so much better." She picks up Hayate and sits down again.

Becky sits down beside her, and resumes combing and drying the bright hair. "We were scared, Riza," she admits. "Jean was out of his mind with worry. He's the one who made Fuery call everybody in to help find you, and to help look after Roy. Dr. Marcoh seemed to think that if we didn't get you back... Roy wouldn't make it."

"I don't even want to think about it," Riza says softly.

"Neither did we."

* * *

When Riza returns to the infirmary, she sees the retreating form of Major Armstrong, and notes the puzzled frown on Roy's face. "What's wrong?"

He looks up and offers her a smile. "Hey... you look like you feel better."

"I do." She gives him a brief kiss, the swelling in her lips having mostly subsided, then sets Hayate on the bed and gets herself settled. "Has something happened?"

"Nothing exactly new. Armstrong came to tell me something he heard from Sikorsky."

"What now?"

"Apparently while Douglas was guarding him the other day, he let it slip that he was the one who sent for my loyal chess pieces."

"Douglas?" Riza repeats. "But how could he have known the code?"

"That's what I want to find out. I asked the Major to send him down here to us." He reaches across the small divide, and she catches his hand and squeezes. "He did us a favor - he might even have saved my life by doing it - but I want to know why he did it, and how he knew."

A few minutes later, Douglas approaches the beds and snaps into a salute. "General Mustang, sir. Colonel Mustang, ma'am. Major Armstrong said you requested my presence."

"At ease." Roy gives him a searching look. "Is there something you'd like to tell us, Douglas?"

"Sir?"

"I've had some information that I'd like explained, if you can."

"Yes, sir?"

"It's been brought to my attention that  _you_  were the one who sent an encoded message to the members of our old team and intimated that they were needed here in Ishval. Is that true?"

"Yes, sir."

Riza blinks. She had expected a denial, that Sikorsky was just trying to get Douglas in trouble. "Why would you do that, Lieutenant?" she asks.

"Well, ma'am, if you'll pardon the lengthy explanation..." He goes into detail about finding her schedule in the trash, covered with red notations that he knew had not been made by either Mustang. "I was reluctant to bring it to your attention, because I knew how strange it would look. So I thought that if your old team was on hand for the time frame in which it seemed like something was likely to happen, they would be able to help you control the situation or possibly even avoid it entirely."

Riza glances at Roy, whose brows are furrowed. He nods slowly. "I don't criticize your choice of actions, Douglas, especially in light of our present circumstances," he says. "But I want to know how you knew about the code. There are only nine people who were ever privy to that particular code."

"Yes, sir."

"Colonel Mustang and I don't use it in the office, and you were never previously acquainted with the other people who know it."

"That's not quite true, sir."

"Come again?"

"I was previously acquainted with one person who knew the code."

They stare at him. "I know for a fact that you've never before met any of our old team, or Edward Elric," says Roy slowly. "And I'll be very surprised if you tell me that you know Fuhrer Grumman."

"I do not, sir."

"But that only leaves..."

"Brigadier General Maes Hughes. Yes, sir." Douglas smiles, for the first time during the interview. "Or as I called him, Uncle Maes."

Riza's eyes widen, and she doesn't need to look at Roy to know how shocked he must appear. "You're his nephew?"

"Not quite, ma'am. Maes was my mother's first cousin," he explains. "He and my mother had grown up together; she was an only child, and looked to her cousin Maes like a brother. So I was always encouraged to call him Uncle Maes. He was my mentor, and the reason I decided to join the military."

"The pieces are starting to fall into place," Roy mutters.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

"I have been hearing your names ever since Uncle Maes returned from the war," he says. "I used to pester Uncle Maes for more stories about you - Roy Mustang and his merry band of brigands, who he said would one day change this country and make it into the place it ought to be." He smiles again, his eyes slightly sad. "Even as a kid I knew that some of what he told me was exaggerated, or completely made up; he did tell me some of your real adventures, after they ended, but not many. Mostly what he talked about was the kind of people you were... how Lieutenant Hawkeye saved his life once in Ishval, how Colonel Mustang held the loyalty of his officers not through fear but through love. How your unit was a family. How much the two of you meant to him - and how much you meant to each other, how he wanted you to have the chance to be together."

Riza has tears in her eyes as she listens. "He meant a lot to us too... the three of us looked out for each other during the war."

"So he said, ma'am. And I decided that I was going to become a military man, just like Uncle Maes, and help push General Mustang up to the top from below. When Uncle Maes passed, I felt like it was more than just my chosen path - I felt like it was my duty, to pick up where he left off in supporting you. That's why I requested to transfer here and be placed under your command."

"I see." Roy's voice is thick. "And the code?"

"Uncle Maes taught me to play chess when I was about twelve. He told me that you were fond of the game, and how you had nicknamed all of your closest supporters after the pieces. He said if I ever got the chance to study Mustang's men up close, I should remember who was which piece and observe how their skills and personalities aligned with their respective pieces. Breda's your heavy-hitter; Havoc is wily and highly mobile; Falman is direct and focused; Fuery is self-sacrificing." Glancing at Riza, he adds, "And of course, the queen is the one on whom you rely the most."

"I'm almost more impressed with your ability to remember so many details than anything else," Roy muses.

"I apologize for not telling you all of this sooner," Douglas adds. "But I wanted to prove myself on my own merits, rather than my family tree."

"And you've done that." Riza glances at her husband as he clears his throat. "I'd like it, Douglas, if you would accompany us to Central once the Colonel has sufficiently recovered to travel. I think you're likely to continue to be valuable to us in this new dilemma."

"I'm only too happy to be of service, sir."

* * *

Once Douglas has been dismissed, Roy and Riza exchange looks. "I can't believe that Hughes is still managing to stick his nose into everything," Roy says.

"It does explain a lot," Riza muses. "I wondered more than once why Douglas made the specific request to be a part of your unit. Now it makes sense."

"If he's half the man Hughes was, we can only expect even greater things from him down the road." Roy chuckles and shakes his head. "Well, at least that's one mystery cleared up, even if we still have about fifty left."

"I'm not sure if I'm more amused or worried that our reputations preceded us to such an extent."

"It netted us a good soldier, in this case. I wouldn't worry too much - Hughes had the annoying tendency to be right about everything. So he can't have been too far off the mark about us."

"Well, he had the advantage, in our case," she points out. "Whatever anyone else ever suspected, he was the only one who knew for sure that we  _were_  an 'us.'"


	19. Endgame

 

**Epilogue: Endgame**

_The stage of the game when there are few pieces left on the board._

* * *

"What time is the train due in again?"

"3:00, Your Excellency."

Grumman huffs into his mustache, and paces the foyer once more. "It's confirmed that they're both on board?"

"Yes, sir. With a considerable entourage, may I add. I'm told that even the former Fullmetal Alchemist is accompanying them."

"Do you think I should receive them at Central Command?"

"Well, sir, what do you think is best?"

"Anderson," the leader of Amestris snaps, "if I did what I think is best, I'd never let her out of my sight again!" He sighs, and removes his glasses to rub his eyes. "I apologize. It's been a tense week."

"I understand, Your Excellency. No offense taken." The head of Grumman's household servants inclines his head. "Perhaps it would best put your mind at ease if you met them at the station directly, rather than wait for them to come to you?"

"You're right. Thank you, that's exactly what I'll do. Kindly ring Central and tell them to arrange me a car - tell them I want Armstrong for my escort, and no questions."

"Right away, sir."

* * *

Left alone, Grumman moves to the low table covered in framed photographs. Most of them are old - a portrait of his late wife, his daughter as a young child. He reaches out and, almost fearfully, picks up one of his favorites.

He spent quite some time dropping hints - perhaps not the most subtle ones - to Roy Mustang that he wanted to see his granddaughter installed as First Lady when the coal-haired alchemist became Fuhrer. Mustang always demurred, calling such notions "premature," but never dismissing the idea outright. Eventually, Grumman worked out that Mustang had every intention of marrying her eventually; her or no one, in fact.

And then Grumman himself was chosen to be the new Fuhrer.

He would have repealed the anti-fraternization law sooner, to make it easier for them, but other things had to take priority. Rebuilding the city, for starters. Rebuilding the  _country_. There was also the matter of the military tribunal concerning the Ishvalan war, and he'd held his breath for weeks (or at least that's how it felt) until he knew for sure that his darling Riza was pardoned, that his incendiary protégé was likewise.

They got there in the end. There were quite a few false starts, but they finally reached the day in the photograph he now holds. Most days, it brings a smile to his face to view this picture; Riza, golden-haired and beautiful in her white dress, arm in arm with Roy, his black eyes softened by his happiness. He knows - everyone who was there when this picture was taken knows - how much they love each other. They rarely use the words, but they don't really need to use them; Havoc and Breda, who are normally part of his personal detail, told him once that they communicate without words on a regular basis. They understand each other that well.

Looking at their gilt-framed images, his heart clenches in his chest. They are the two most important people in the world to him.

How close he has come, in recent days, to losing them both.

And he didn't know.

Of course, they  _would_  try to keep him in the dark as long as they could. It's part stubbornness, part consideration. They don't want him to worry. He supposes he's grateful that they finally did tell him, or rather, allow someone else to tell him. Still, it has been difficult to accept. His beloved grandchild, his only family, abducted in an effort to get her husband to resurrect a genocidal conflict, only to have him collapse from fever and shock. Yes, they've both sufficiently recovered, now, to make the journey to Central. Yes, he will see them both with his own eyes, know that they are safe and whole. No, that does not make it any easier to bear, especially since the perpetrator remains at large and, one may assume, plotting.

The train is not due for at least another hour. It will be a long one.

* * *

"Major General Armstrong, you are a vision."

"Fuhrer Grumman." She salutes him coldly. "You requested me to accompany you to the railroad station."

"I did. At ease, General, we're old friends."

"I don't know about that, sir." She does, however, allow him a tiny smile.

"Close enough that I wish it had been more pleasant business that brought you to Central, at any rate."

"There is that. I'm pleased to hear that your granddaughter is recovered from her ordeal. Him too, I suppose."

Grumman chuckles, and feels grateful to Armstrong for making the quip that prompted it. He's laughed very little of late. "Still as besotted with my grandson-in-law as ever, I see."

"If  _besotted_  has had its meaning changed and now describes the feeling of  _I hope something eats you_ , then yes, as much as ever." Her visible eye has a wicked glint.

"Well, we'll just have to keep your adoration between ourselves, because you know Riza is the jealous type."

Armstrong always looks, when he speaks to her, like she isn't sure whether to laugh or not at his humor. She has that appearance now. Ultimately she opts to ignore it. "The car is waiting, sir. Shall we go?"

All the cheer vanishes from his demeanor. "Yes, I think so. Lead the way, General."

* * *

"Fuhrer Grumman!"

To a man, the military contingent arriving from Ishval snaps into a salute. His gaze travels over them. Havoc and Breda, Falman and Fuery; he's not surprised. Catalina. A lieutenant he doesn't recognize. Fullmetal, even though he's no longer technically military, salutes too. And in the heart of the formation, still looking weary but determined and calm, Mustang and Mustang.

"At ease," he says, and they relax their stances. A bit of shuffling allows Riza to step forward; he extends his arms, and she walks into his embrace. "Riza..."

"Hello, Grandfather." She's slightly muffled by his shoulder.

"Oh, my darling..." He pulls back and looks into her face, searching. "Forgive me. I don't have the right to be this way, after being a stranger to you for so long, but..."

"It's all right." She gives him a small smile. "You're allowed."

He hugs her again, tightly, then looks over at Roy. "And you, my boy...got sick again, did you?"

"Better now, thank you, sir."

"Good. The rest of you - well done. But don't get complacent, we've a ways to go yet." Grumman finally releases his granddaughter and turns. "We're heading to Central Command. I want to be brought entirely up to speed on everything; I got some more information from Major Armstrong when he brought the turncoat, but I want to know whatever remains that I don't know already."

* * *

It's a tense meeting, and not just because Generals Mustang and Armstrong are both there.

Major Armstrong, Brosh and Ross join them in the Situation Room, and everything which is known by anyone is laid out for universal understanding. It's safe to say that things are serious. The full extent of Acheron's plans and resources is unknown, but his use of Sikorsky on the inside is a particular cause for concern because, as Ross puts it, who else may be involved?

"I want none of this going beyond those present in this room," says Grumman. "Those of you seated at this table are the only ones I personally know to be fully trustworthy - wait. Who are you?"

"Lieutenant Paul Douglas, sir."

"One of yours, General Mustang?"

"Yes, sir. Douglas is the one who discovered that something was amiss in Ishval. It's because of him that we caught Sikorsky."

"I see. All right, if the General will vouch for you then that's good enough for me." He looks at them all keenly. "Don't breathe it to another soul. We don't know how far into the military this corruption may go, but after what we all saw a few years ago, I'm not taking any chances."

"No, sir."

"We need to start doing recon as soon as possible. Mustang, you still have your old contacts?"

"Most of them, at least. I'll get in touch with Madame as soon as possible."

"Fine. The rest of you, dismissed - get a good night's sleep. It might be the last one any of us get for a while. We'll reconvene here at 0800."

Friendly goodnights are exchanged among the group, and they slowly start to file out. Grumman detains Roy and Riza; Fullmetal, he notes, lingers near the door. "Roy, call your mother and tell her I'll send a car. You two are staying at the house with me - she can come to dinner and we'll see what information she can give us. I know she can be trusted, so I'll leave it to your discretion how far you want to bring her into the loop."

"Fuhrer Grandfather, sir," says Riza, "if we're staying at the mansion, I have to ask a favor."

"What's that, my dear?"

"Fullmetal, sir. We were only able to persuade his wife to return to Resembool by promising that we - that I - would keep an eye on him."

"Ah! Of course, he's welcome to stay there as well." He beckons to the golden-eyed man, who stops loitering and joins them properly. "After I invited myself to your wedding, I think giving you a few nights' worth of hospitality isn't too much to ask."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

Madame Christmas doesn't have much in the way of information to report, but she's grateful for the sight of her foster son. "Another fever, Roy-boy?"

"It's fine, really. I'm better now; they found the cure I needed."

"Hmm." To Riza she says, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, Madame."

"The girls and I will keep our ears to the ground, but I don't know what we'll find."

"At this point, anything would be a help," Grumman tells her. "We're lucky we got the kids back in one piece."

"The kids?" Roy repeats, looking amused.

"Quiet, you. When are you coming to the new place, Grum? I have your usual in stock."

"I'll keep that in mind. Maybe once this is all sorted and these two are back in Ishval." He sees Roy and Riza exchanging glances, and chuckles quietly. "Let's have dinner."

They do, with Grumman being cheery and playful throughout. It's only after the meal, conversing privately with Madame, that he stops being jovial and gets serious. "You haven't heard anything at all?" he asks her.

"Nothing. I'll check with the girls, but they probably would have told me about it - at the very least, they'd have mentioned that accent if it's as thick as you say."

"We've got the board set up and the best pieces are in formation," he muses, "but it's a lightning round against an unseen opponent. Too many unknown variables at this point. We can't afford any gambits, that's for sure."

"You sound like my son." She gives Grumman a searching look. "They  _are_  all right, aren't they?"

"I think so, but I haven't known what happened much longer than you have." He looks troubled. "From everything I've been told, we came damn close to losing them both."

"That's what I thought you were going to say. So what now, Grum?"

"I don't like sitting in a foxhole and waiting for the enemy to make the first move. We're going to have to draw him out." He shakes his head. "I'm getting too old for this."

"This would be a bad time to retire."

"Let myself be stalemated when the game is just beginning? Perish the thought. No," and the Fuhrer's eyes glitter, "no. We'll use this situation to the best advantage we can, Madame. Can I interest you in a game of chess?"

"With you? Always."

"That's how we have to look at what's happening. It's another game of chess." Settling the board on the table between them, he adds, "If we do this right, it might just turn out to be a true brilliancy."

"I will drink to that."


End file.
